


mystery of love

by eehms



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parent, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Slurs, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Infidelity, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 53,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eehms/pseuds/eehms
Summary: Somewhere in Central England, 1909, 19 year old Tommy Shelby meets 21 year old Alfie Solomons.
Relationships: Greta Jurossi/Tommy Shelby, Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 46
Kudos: 123





	1. swallow all your tears my love

**Author's Note:**

> so. this happened. i think i've read through every single T/A fic on AO3 multiple times, and i've been obsessed with call me by your name since 2017, so my two hyper-fixations collided. more inspired by CMBYN than anything else and should work even if you haven't seen the movie/read the book, but some scenes/dialogue V similar or ripped straight from movie. & tommy is 19 not 17, b/c i said so! 
> 
> forget EVERYTHING you know about the shelby house and family, because i sure did! differs a bit from canon, as i didn’t want to write about greta dying/the mother’s suicide. another thing i should mention, is that i do not understand how Crime works, nor do i know anything about horses, or the racing of/betting on them. just thought i'd say that now!!!!
> 
> writing pre-war tommy was strange. i tried to make him a bit sillier, a bit more uncertain about the world. alfie is still alfie (mainly because i cannot picture him ever being anything else), but i tried to soften him up around the edges a bit. hopefully it's not too OOC, and i hope whoever might read this enjoys :~)

_Somewhere in Central England, 1909._

Tommy’s sitting in the alcove by the window when the stranger arrives. 

It’s a Thursday, almost noon, which is something he knows but isn’t particularly interested in. It’s just the fact that it’s a Thursday that strikes him as a bit odd— who starts a new job on a Thursday? In the middle of the day?

The middle of the day in Birmingham means that it’s gloomy and gray outside, the dust and the dirt from nearby factories clinging to the air and every surface it touches. There’s no real plant life in Small Heath, it’s all half-broken roads and smoke-stained brick, choking out any who dare breathe in too deeply. It’s not exactly a pleasant place to live, but this is where he is, and there’s not much use in moping about it. 

Greta stirs behind him, napping serenely in a dirty armchair, pretty eyes fluttering open to meet his. Tommy glances over and feels his lips twist up, that funny feeling in his chest that stirs whenever he sees her, softening into something he’s still too nervous to properly label. She smiles back at him, awareness slowly making itself known. He sighs, a bit theatrically, raising his eyebrows at her as he does so. “The usurper.” Then he looks back out the window. He can hear Greta rising to her feet, can sense her presence as she leans over his shoulder to get a better look.

Tommy can’t fully tell from his vantage point in the window, but the stranger appears to be around his age, maybe a few years older. He’s dressed formally, a long, dark coat obscuring what must be a fairly large frame. He’s big, bigger than Tommy, bigger than Arthur, probably, shoulders squared, seemingly rejecting his surroundings. He’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat that conceals much of his face from above, but he can tell that he has a brown beard on his chin, full and slightly wild looking. He can’t make out much else, but Tommy eyes the car the man has just climbed out of appreciatively. Not many cars around these parts. Tommy’s never even been in one. 

It doesn’t surprise him that the stranger arrives in a car, Arthur Sr. had gone over some of the details the previous week. _A new bloke, coming up from London_ , he’d grunted, in that way that their father tended to, when there wasn’t enough whisky in his glass but there were no more bottles in the house, _a Jew. Don’t remember his fuckin’ name, do I?_ He’d been telling Polly, who was glaring up at him across the kitchen table, unimpressed. Tommy had been on his way out the door, coat pulled tightly to his shoulders against what he knew would be a cold evening. It was the beginning of summer, and the sun was going down, taking its meager warmth with it.

Arthur Sr. was the head of the family and in charge of the family business, though he didn’t do a very good job of it, if you asked Tommy. Not that anyone ever did ask Tommy, and not that he wanted them to, anyways. Tommy was not interested in the Peaky Blinders, wasn’t interested in the cutting, and the thieving, the betting, and the clumsy forays into actual murdering. That was for Arthur to worry about, if he ever wanted to follow in their father’s footsteps. Tommy thinks that personally, Arthur would be a better boxer than gang leader; something where he could unleash his violent energy without needing to think about it too much. He just doesn’t have the right head for that kind of thing. He’s sweet, for one, no matter how much he tries to hide it through a boyish bravado that at 22 he still hasn’t quite grown out of. But Arthur Jr. dotes on Arthur Sr., despite the fact that anyone with a pair of eyes and a functioning head would understand what a poor father he was, and a lousy man, at that. Tommy wasn’t interested in any of it. Tommy just worked with the horses.

It had been where he was going, the night he heard Arthur Sr. talking about the stranger; the stables were close enough that he could walk there, and he liked to spend as much of his time there as possible. At night, you could almost mistake Birmingham for beautiful, if you closed your head off a bit to the smog and the distant sounds of men fighting in pubs. Located right on the cut, Tommy liked to sit in the stables at night, close enough to the horses that he could make sure that they were calm, and he’d stare into the canals. It was hard to find somewhere in Birmingham that was quiet, but it could be here, with the moon shining down on him, the breeze cool on his face. Yeah, he much preferred it to home. With Finn being barely a year old, combined with Arthur Sr. spending most of his time there drunk, it wasn’t exactly a relaxing environment.

While standing in the doorway, Tommy could hear Polly’s voice saying something, low and furious, and Arthur Sr. snorting derisively. He says something then, something that Tommy can only half hear, something about a deal made in London, and a potential protege being brought in. From what Tommy understood about the whole thing, it was more to do with someone wanting the stranger sent away, rather than Arthur Sr. wanting someone brought in. Birmingham was far enough out of the way, apparently, that the fancy gangs in London could send their unwanted henchmen in fancy cars to be kept under the eye of some backstreet razor gang without much of a fuss.

He’d shrugged his shoulders at the time, or the mental equivalent of it, as he’s stood alone in the hallway. It really shouldn’t affect him or his life, afterall. He spent very little time in the company of the Peaky’s, or at least ones that weren’t his immediate family. He kept to himself, he did, and the only time he really saw them at all was when he’d pop into the Garrison for a drink. Gangsters, even ones as lowly as the Peaky’s, were something to be avoided. No, he’d stick with the stables. He’d departed then, quickly, before Polly or Arthur Sr. realized he’d been listening. 

That had been the week before, and now here he was, on a Thursday afternoon. He can’t hear anyone in the house rousing themselves, can’t hear anyone going to greet the stranger, who clearly doesn’t know where to go. “I should go down there.” He muses after a moment has passed; the stranger is turning his face to look up and down the road, exposing a deep red tie at his throat. He’s got one suitcase in his hands, and he doesn’t acknowledge the car as it’s driver departs, coughing smoke down the street. Tommy feels like a voyeur, peering down at the man from his bedroom. Greta sighs, content, beside him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder before she lights up a cigarette. He tears his eyes away from the man, eyes flickering between Greta, and the pack of cigarettes still in her hand. He raises an eyebrow, and she rolls her eyes, delicately holding the cigarette out for him to take a drag. He does, inhaling the smoke deep, feeling the rush of nicotine washing through his veins, grounding him nicely as he considers his plan of action. “Right.” He stands, leaning to press a light kiss to her cheek before he’s off, tapping at John’s door as he passes it, not pausing long enough to actually speak with him. Arthur, Jr and Sr. both, are around there somewhere, but Tommy doesn’t stop to find them, just calls out loudly, to alert the rest of the house, “Oi! We’ve a guest!”

Tommy descends the stairs to the ground floor, tugging briefly at his sleeves as he does. He’d not grabbed his jacket from it’s place on the hook by his bed, and he’s aware that his shirt and vest have seen better days. He’s not particularly worried about impressing the gangster who has been dumped on their doorstep, but you only made a first impression once. He sees Polly just as he reaches the front door, perpetually smoking, seated once again at the table. She sees him too, regarding him with a degree of coolness that he assumes isn’t for him, but for the situation at large. He quirks a smile at her, as if to say, ‘ _what are you gonna do, eh?’_ and swings the front door open to the street.

The man immediately turns to the source of the noise, Tommy interrupting him from his very busy task of peering suspiciously down the street. He’s frowning, Tommy can now see, now that his face isn’t fully obscured from the high angle. He can still barely make out any tiny details; any potentially fine features still shielded by hair and shadow. All he can see is a slightly crooked nose (just enough to classify as such), and bright, intelligent looking eyes. He looks somehow larger than he’d initially thought, which is strange, as he could swear that if they stood back to back, he’d only be a few inches taller.

“Right, mate,” the man’s voice is low, growly, and Tommy can tell that he’s irritated. “You a Shelby, eh?”

“I am.” Tommy nods slowly. He realizes that he never caught the man’s name from Arthur Sr. “Tommy. You the man from London, then?”

He doesn’t quite get a chance to respond, as Tommy is shuffled unceremoniously out of the way of the doorway, pushed past by his father and brother. Tommy stumbles a bit, but rights himself before there’s any chance of falling over. When he looks up, the man is still watching him. 

“Solomons, right?” Arthur Sr. says in that booming voice of his, the one that means that he’s trying to appear intimidating. His brother stands behind their dad, puffing his chest out like a rooster, clearly very proud of himself. “Took you long enough, boy.”

Solomons doesn’t respond right away, eyeing the three men with something in his gaze that makes Tommy think, _hm,_ because maybe he’s not just some London thug. Tommy leans back, close enough to the wall now that he can do so easily as he studies the man right back. There’s something a bit disconcerting about how the man keeps looking at him; generally, when the Arthur’s are involved, people completely forget that Tommy is there. He’s smaller than the others, and there’s no looming threat of violence wafting off of him with every social interaction. But there this strange man is, surveying them all equally, quite obviously judging them, and just as obviously not coming across as impressed. 

Beyond that, there’s something about the way that he… stands. Tommy doesn’t know how to describe it, exactly, doesn’t even really know what it is that made him clock it. But the man stands with an undeniable quiet confidence, as if he weren’t some reject shipped off to Birmingham. His confidence is so thorough, that Tommy actually begins questioning whether or not someone had lied to his father about the man. Perhaps they’d sent someone to spy on the Peaky’s, or something like that. He eliminates that possibility almost as soon as he thinks it. Why the fuck would anyone want to spy on _them?_

“Hm, right.” The man finally replies, a half-beat before Tommy can tell that his father was going to say something. He takes a step forward. “You must be Arthur. Thanks for the warm welcome, yeah, but you suppose we could get off this fuckin’ street? It fuckin’ reeks out here, it does.”

Tommy briefly fights the urge to smile, but gives into it easily. The nerve of this man. He’s going to make their father lose his mind. He feels an automatic sense of kinship, in that moment— anyone who could talk back to Arthur was alright in his book. Solomons’ eyes land on him, once again. Yeah, this man might be alright.

*

The man’s name is Alfie Solomons, and he has packed light. Tommy knows this because Tommy is the one who takes his luggage for him as he leads him to the spare room they’ve got set up. The spare room can barely be considered that; it’s hardly bigger than a broom closet, windowless, with a bed shoved in that gets hit by the door every time it opens. It’s on the top floor, right in between Tommy’s and John’s, and far enough away from the baby’s room that it shouldn’t be too noisy. Tommy had led the man there, after he’d exchanged curt greetings with the rest of the Shelby clan, introducing himself with a great deal of bitterness. Whatever had happened in London to get him exiled here had clearly left him surly, but he was polite enough with the people who were offering him shelter, save Arthur himself. The intention was for the man to stay with the Shelby’s until they could find him alternative accommodations. Tommy tries to not think about the fact that his father apparently leads a gang so fearsome that they’re harbouring strays in their own home. Couldn’t find a man with a spare couch. God knows the Shelby house is packed to the brim as it is. He tries not to let that bother him as he leads Alfie to his room. 

Alfie is silent as they ascend the stairs, which Tommy doesn’t mind. They pass Greta on their way up, who is on her way down and out. Tommy lands a kiss to her cheek as they pass, reaching the hand not occupied with a suitcase out to pinch at the meat of her thigh. She swats him off with a giggle. He glances at Alfie as the two nod politely at each other, slightly curious as to his reaction, but Alfie looks completely disinterested. Just looks tired, really. During the earlier introductions in the kitchen, Tommy had watched as the energy and the edge of hostility had slowly drained from the man, a kind of exhaustion sinking in instead. He’d eyed them all at first, not giving much thought to the younger ones, like John or Ada, but he did seem to clock Polly as one to look out for. He’d clutched the cup of tea that Ada had thrust upon him like a lifeline, adding what looked like entirely too much milk, in Tommy’s opinion. It had only been when Tommy took pity on the man that he’d been able to extract Alfie from the bustle in the kitchen, asking his father if he should show their guest to his lodgings. Alfie’s eyes had landed on his once more.

He didn’t quite know what to think about it, the staring. He didn’t make any attempt to hide where he was looking, and the intensity of it made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Even as they make their way to the third floor, cresting over the top of the landing, he can sense the man’s eyes on the back of his neck. He feels overexposed, as if he’s being considered very carefully, and he really doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“Well,” Tommy finally says as they reach the door. He’s the presence of mind to be slightly embarrassed by the shitty room. “Here’s your room. Mine’s just over there,” he points to his door, firmly shut, then to the other door in the hall, “and that one’s John’s.”

Alfie doesn’t reply, just shuffles around Tommy to open the door and then stops at the threshold. He stares inside, face carefully blank as he takes in his living situation. The room looks bleak. As the seconds slip by, Tommy can almost feel his own cheeks heating up, sympathetic. 

Then, Alfie sighs, low and resigned. “Guess this is the best I could hope for in this fuckin’ town, eh?” He takes off his hat, exposing his full head for the first time. He’s wearing a small cap underneath— a kippah, his brain provides helpfully—, which he also removes along with his jacket, tossing all on his tiny bed. He makes no further move to truly enter the room, still standing in the doorway, turning his attention back to Tommy, who feels his cheeks begin to heat up in earnest. To avoid needing to look in the man’s eyes, Tommy takes the initiative to enter the room, placing the suitcase down gently on the wardrobe shoved in the back corner. It was the wrong move, he figures out about one step in, as the path takes him incredibly close to the man, who barely makes any attempt to make room for him in the doorway, their body’s almost touching as Tommy squeezes past. And once he’s in there, he has nowhere to really go. 

He clears his throat, unsure what to do with his suddenly empty hands. He settles for stuffing them in his trouser pockets as he turns around to face Alfie (who is still watching him, naturally). 

“Right. Well, you want a drink? A smoke?” He doesn’t know why he offers, they’d just come from having tea in the kitchen, and surely the man has brought his own cigarettes. He just feels the overwhelming need to offer him something, if only to make up for his meager room. 

Alfie shrugs. “Could use a smoke.” His voice sounds casual, rumbling and low. 

Tommy nods, then passes Alfie for the second time, squeezing once again through the gap in the doorway. He’s got a pack in his bedside table in his room, and an actual window to sit by, so that’s where he goes. He can hear Alfie following behind, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. 

Tommy’s room, in all honesty, isn’t that much better than the broom closet. It’s bigger, and it has a window, yes, but that’s about where the differences end. Every room in their house has seen much better days, years of accumulated filth caused by children, by drinking, by smoking, just by life. Tommy keeps his room somewhat tidy, though there are loose items strewn about randomly. There’s a pile of loose clothes at the end of his bed, fresh from hanging out to dry that he hasn’t put away yet. Alfie pauses at his doorway, but follows him in this time, going to stand beside the window as Tommy finds his cigarettes. He leaves the door wide open behind him.

By the time he joins him at the window, cigarette held out politely, the man is busy staring out the window, down the street. He takes the cigarette as Tommy throws himself down on the little alcove, trying entirely too hard to make it seem as if his movements were completely natural. Which, they are, he supposes, but he’s hiding his nervousness. There’s probably enough room for the both of them to sit, but Alfie makes no move to do so, just keeps looking out the window, only tearing his eyes away from the street when Tommy holds up his book of matches after lighting his own cigarette. 

After both of their cigarettes are lit, a new quiet falls over the two of them. They can hear the movement from downstairs, because this is the Shelby house and there’s always people shouting over each other, but it seems very far away from their slightly awkward silence. Tommy doesn’t know what to say, but he hates the quiet. He wasn’t raised to be comfortable in it.

“So,” he says after a moment, physically incapable of allowing the silence to go on longer than he needed to. “From London, eh? What’s it like?” It’s the kind of question a child would ask a grown up, and he’s a bit embarrassed— Alfie can’t be that much his elder, this should be less awkward than it is.

Alfie turns to look at him. His face is neutral, but Tommy is good at reading people, and he could swear there was something slightly smug about his expression. As if Tommy speaking first had been a win for him. “Have you never been to London, mate? It’s but a train ride away.”

Tommy tries to ignore the hint of condescension in his voice— Alfie can see quite well, just from the state of their house, that Tommy couldn’t afford to just hop on a train and go for a casual day in the city. “Just never got around to it, I suppose.”

“Hm,” Alfie says, then stops. Every noise he makes like that comes from deep in his chest, and Tommy thinks you could probably feel him vibrate, if he were to place his hands on his sternum. “Well, it’s all smog, innit? Smog, posh gits and fucking rats running the streets like they own it. Still a hell of a lot nicer than this fuckin’ city.”

Tommy doesn’t know if he should be offended by that or not, so he lets the barb go. Better to under-react than to over-react, which is something he’s learnt from his older brother. He just nods instead, letting the quiet fall over them once again. Alfie doesn’t sound like he wants to talk. 

“Who are you then, huh?”

Tommy blinks, slightly surprised by the change in topic. He glances out of the corner of his eyes towards the man, who has turned his full attention at him and has assuredly noticed him looking. Feeling slightly caught, he turns to face him head on. “Me? I’m… Thomas.” As if the man had already forgotten.

Alfie waves the hand holding the cigarette, as if Tommy had just said something incredibly stupid. He supposed he had. “I know that, don’t I? But who are you?”

“I’m…” Truthfully, Tommy didn’t really know what to say. Who was he? Who asked that kind of question, beyond asking for someone’s name? What did he expect him to say? Tell him his whole life story? _Well, it all started on a boat, sailing the cut…_ “I’m a Shelby. But I work with horses.”

“Horses, eh?” Alfie seems satisfied with the answer, nodding his head slightly. He runs a hand through his beard, smoothing out it’s wildness slightly. Tommy has to look up at the man to make polite eye contact, and they’re close enough now that Tommy can really study his face beneath the beard. He’s got very plump lips, and his eyes are a nice shade of greenish gray. “Not a Peaky then?”

Tommy shakes his head, smiling slightly. “What gave it away?”

“Well, right, think it was fuckin’ every single thing about you that gave it away, right? Not much like your father or your brother down there, are you? Little thing that you are.” Alfie takes a drag of his cigarette, and then he seats himself beside Tommy at the window. Tommy has to scoot a bit backwards to make room for him. It’s a slightly snug fit, but comfortable enough. He ensures that they aren’t touching. 

“Little thing?” Tommy raises an incredulous eyebrow, but the smile still hasn’t quite dropped off his face. He knows he’s not a big man, so he’s not overly offended. 

Alfie nods, face very serious. “Yeah, little. Almost delicate, right? And with them fuckin’ eyes, mate, you almost look like a porcelain doll. Fluttering eyelashes and all.” 

Tommy very much resists the urge to blink, as to avoid any undue fluttering. He’s not exactly sure what to say to that. 

Thing is, Tommy thinks he knows where this is coming from, and where it’s going. He’s had men look at him before, and would likely have them look at him again in future. He’s pretty, he knows that he’s pretty, it’s just a fact of his life that he has to deal with. He’s going to be pretty for the rest of his life until he gets too old to be so, or until someone beats the pretty out of the bones in his face. 

The full realization of what Alfie’s comment and behaviour meant comes forth all at once, puzzle pieces sinking softly into place. Alfie had been staring at him so much because he was interested, or at least because he finds him attractive. Tommy doesn’t mind, so much, as long as he manages to keep his hands to himself. He knows his father would be furious if he were to find out about the suspected proclivities of their new guest, but Tommy’s met a lot of very kind people over the years, and every man who has ever approached him for something like this has been perfectly pleasant after he rejects them. 

Tommy turns away from Alfie then, glancing towards the open door to his room. Nothing’s been said that can’t be explained away. He’s still smiling a bit, he realizes, and he can still feel Alfie studying his every move. “Right. I’ll try to keep the fluttering under control, then. Perhaps that will keep you from staring.” It’s brave, braver than he’d usually be with a gangster right at his side. He thinks, belatedly, that of all the men who have approached him and been polite in their rejection, that none of them had been the kind of man to be in a gang. Fishermen and stableboys, sure, but no gangsters.

Alfie makes that sound again, deep in his throat. Tommy notices his lips curling up behind his beard. He seems delighted to have been caught and commented on, unashamed. “Ah. Figured me out, haven’t you? Clever one, too. But I didn’t say to do that, did I? Was quite enjoying the fluttering, in fact. Was enjoying the staring, too.”

“You enjoyed staring at me? And why is that?” Tommy ashes his cigarette, held loosely in his hand, almost entirely forgotten about. He doesn’t really know why he asked that. He’s sure that he could provide the answer, but there’s a small part of him that wants to know for sure.

“It’s all in your face, right? You’ve got the type of face that you’d want to look at forever, or not at all. Think I’m sticking with the former.” Alfie sounds completely unapologetic as he takes another drag. He’s still looking at him directly, almost looks as if he’s even leaning in a bit.

Tommy makes a soft noise, half a snort. He lowers his voice, wary of the open door. He wants a decisive answer from Alfie, but not a thrashing from his father if he were to overhear. “And you usually enjoy looking at the faces of men?” 

Alfie’s definitely leaning in now, though Tommy can’t quite tell if it’s so they can speak quieter, or if he’s just doing it to get closer. Could be a bit of both. “Only the pretty ones, eh? Though don’t you worry yourself, treacle. I saw you and that girl on the stairs, know your heart must only beat for her, and other such sentimental drivel.”

 _Treacle?_ Tommy thinks, incredulous for the second time during this short conversation. Who talks like this? Who talks like this to a man he’s only just met, whose father is the leader of a gang who specializes in the slicing of cornea? He’s baffled by the man, and more than a little charmed, despite himself. He might not be exactly interested in what was on offer, but it was quite flattering, if he were honest with himself. 

“That was Greta,” Tommy supplies, after decisively rolling his eyes at the whole _treacle_ thing. “She’s, we’re—”

Alfie holds a hand up. His hand is broad, strong looking. Everything about the man is strong looking; not overly so, but he has the look of someone who lifts heavy objects for a living. Tommy wonders, briefly, what it is exactly that Alfie does. He knows he’s some gangster, sure, but what is he involved in? Is he some henchman, driving a getaway car? Hired muscle, paid to stand there and look intimidating? That one sounds more likely. “Doesn’t matter,” Alfie says, and he’s smiling as if they’re sharing some private joke. “Promise to behave meself. I will be a perfect gentleman, unless I am given reason to behave otherwise.” 

He stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray, barely halfway done it. Tommy furrows his brows, looking questioningly at the man. Alfie continues, unperturbed. “Nasty, horrible habit. ‘S why I don’t smoke, right?” He dusts his hands off, though it is entirely unnecessary— no ash has stuck to his fingers. 

“Right, you don’t smoke.” Tommy says, under his breath, before he can help himself. He takes an exaggerated puff of his own cigarette. He ignores how Alfie’s eyes follow his movement, fixing on his lips. “Neither do I.”

*

Tommy wakes up early the next morning. After his cigarette with Alfie, he’d headed down to the stables to check on the horses, and night had fallen quickly. He found himself thinking about the man often, surprising himself. He was just so odd, was the thing. And brutally honest, apparently. He’d have never expected their new house guest to immediately speak to him like the man had— it was downright dangerous, especially in Birmingham. Men couldn’t talk like that to other men, unless they wanted to get cut in some dark alley somewhere. Tommy should probably tell his father about what had been said, but he found himself reluctant to. He didn’t believe that the man deserved to die for liking what he did, regardless of what the church or the law said to the contrary.

No, he wouldn’t tell, he’d finally decided, as he walked with a cigarette in hand to the Garrison. He’d keep the man’s secret, no matter how much Alfie didn’t seem to care about it remaining one. 

Tommy wakes up early, but slowly that morning. He feels tired, a bit worn out, and he hasn’t even gotten out of bed. He’d drank a bit the night previous, but he was still young enough that a hangover just meant a bit of extra yawning. 

He can hear Alfie in the next room, snoring. It’s not particularly loud, it’s just a sound he’s not quite used to. He hadn’t run into Alfie again the day before, had arrived home after the man had already retreated to his room for the night. In his half-drunk daze, Tommy hadn’t thought much of their visitor, but he thinks about him now as he stares up at the ceiling. He supposes that if the man were a threat to them, he’d have strangled Tommy in his sleep already, so there might not be anything to worry about. Still, he could never be _too_ careful with this kind of thing. 

Tommy eventually rolls his way out of bed, his craving for nicotine calling for him to at least have a smoke. Plus, he’s hungry. He lights up a cigarette, taking care to pull on a bit more clothing than he might usually just to grab breakfast, ever-aware of Alfie’s presence in their house. Trying extra hard to step lightly, Tommy leaves his room to go downstairs. 

It’s still quite early, despite him lying around for a while after waking, and it means that he has the house to himself for now. As he passes his room, he can hear the unmistakable sounds of Finn babbling away in his crib. He’ll surely be screaming and waking the whole house soon enough, so Tommy creeps in to grab the boy before he can start. Finn shares his room with Ada, now that he’s sleeping through the night, so he takes care to not wake his sister as he goes. 

“Hello there,” Tommy cooes, scooping the boy up before he can do any complaining about it being him and not Polly. He has to hold his cigarette awkwardly between his lips as he does so, leaning his face away as to not burn him. Finn grabs at his chin with his pudgy little hand, and Tommy makes a hasty retreat with him, being careful not to let the door slam behind him. 

Finn in hand, Tommy continues on his way down to the kitchen. Finn is still babbling freely, Tommy nodding along seriously as he switches the boy onto his hip to free his other hand. When he reaches the ground floor, he can hear the sounds of people on their way to work. He should check on Finn’s nappy, probably, sooner than later, and he really could use a piss himself. Arthur Sr. had hired a woman to come and care of Finn during the day, but she likely wouldn’t be there for another hour or so. Tommy quietly thought it ridiculous that they would hire someone to care for Finn when they’ve barely any money and so many people in the house to begin with, but it wasn’t as if he were going to volunteer to stay home all day with the baby. So Tommy just continues smoking his cigarette, and continues about his morning. 

By the time he’s got Finn in a fresh nappy and set up to eat, the rest of the house has begun to stir. It’s Ada first, then John— the younger they are, the more eager to start their days— then Polly, then Arthur Jr. Tommy doesn’t expect their father up for hours, having run into him briefly at the Garrison the night previous, and having been witness to his state of extreme drunkenness. Soon enough, the only one not come down for breakfast is Alfie. Tommy is unsure if he had ended up eating with the family for dinner the night before, as he’d still been down at the stables, and doesn’t know if he should expect the man to join them for meals at all. 

As if sensing his thoughts were on Alfie, Polly clears her throat. She’s sat beside Tommy, who is onto another cigarette as he waits for the food he’d shovelled down his throat to settle. “So. What do we think about our guest?”

“He’s a bit scary lookin’.” Ada says immediately, still working on her porridge. They had honey that morning, which they weren’t able to always afford, so they had to enjoy it while it lasted. “Why’s he wear that tiny hat?” So they had seen the man after Tommy had left— Alfie hadn’t been wearing it last he saw him. 

“It’s ‘cause he’s a Jew, Ada.” Arthur grunts out, staring down into his bowl, seemingly enraptured.

“What’s that got to do with him wearing little hats?”

Tommy answers her now, sure that Arthur doesn’t have much of a clue what he’s talking about. “It’s called a kippah, Ada.” He pauses for a moment, as he doesn’t actually know much beyond that, either. “Think it’s for prayer.”

Polly nods. “Yes. But don’t you go asking him about it, any of you, or give him a hard time. I may not like having a stranger in this house, but while we do, we’re all going to treat him with as much respect as you’d give anyone else—” 

John snickers. “And how much respect is that, exactly?”

“John.” Polly gives him a sharp, warning look. It’s enough to cow them all, averting their eyes and staring down at the table. Tommy holds a lot of respect for his aunt, even more so since that whole debacle with her children last year. He’d half expected her to crumble, but she’d handled it all with an amount of grace that he hadn’t thought possible. It had been a hard year at the Shelby house, that was for sure.

“No one is going to give him any trouble, Pol.” Tommy says after she doesn’t continue speaking, and there’s a round of obedient nods at the table. Tommy glances at John out of the corner of his eyes, but is satisfied to see him looking at least somewhat chastised. He feels concerned for the boy— he’s 14 now, and he’s certainly shown a predilection towards the family business. There’s not much that he can actually do if John follows in their father and elder brother’s footsteps. It’s not like anyone ever bloody listens to him, besides Polly, perhaps. She’s just as concerned about it as he is.

Arthur nods his head, enthusiastic. “Right, ‘course not, Pol. In fact, I’m taking him out this morning. Showin’ him the ropes, and all.”

“Can I come?” John’s bottom lip is practically quivering, spoon held in the air, mid-scoop.

Polly frowns again. “You most certainly can not. You’ve got school.”

“Oh, let him come, he can miss one day.” Arthur waves his hand, dismissively. “It’s nothin’, Pol. Just taking him to the tracks, to take some bets, then showin’ him around so he doesn’t get lost. Nothing dangerous.”

Polly certainly doesn’t look convinced, and she turns to Tommy for support. He takes a quick drag of his cigarette, raising his eyebrows and coughing out a laugh. “You think anything I say will stop them?” 

Before she begins shouting in earnest, Arthur is quick to interrupt. “What if we bring Tommy with us, then? He can watch after John. He’s not going anywhere near anything dangerous, we all know that.” Arthur, sitting on Tommy’s other side, slaps a hand on his shoulder, a teasing smile on his face. Tommy slaps his hand away, but he’s smiling as he rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, Tommy’s going. That makes it all okay, then, I suppose? Why don’t you bring Ada too, while you’re at it. I can put Finn in his coat, if you’d like to make it a family affair.” Polly sounds absolutely exasperated, throwing her hands in the air.

Following her lead, Tommy points his cigarette accusingly at Arthur, face still a bit too bright to be anywhere near threatening. “And who says I want to waste my day to begin with? I’ve got things to do.”

A full scale argument breaks out at this point, John and Arthur quick to point out that Tommy’s work with the horses, while enjoyable and certainly necessary, can be easily passed off to Uncle Charlie or Curly. Polly still doesn’t want John anywhere near any illegal betting operations, and Tommy is in agreement. He doesn’t mention that he doesn’t want to go partially due to his heart rate speeding up at the thought of spending the day with the man upstairs. He’s nervous about him being flirtatious towards him around his brothers. It would probably be okay, he’s sure that Alfie doesn’t have an actual deathwish, but his heart keeps up it’s speedy rhythm, regardless. 

The argument is eventually interrupted by the sounds of footsteps coming from upstairs. It’s either their father (which Tommy doubts), or, their guest. Either way, it’s quite late, Tommy realizes, and their arguing has made the argument itself a bit of a moot point— it’s past the time in which John and Ada should have left for school. The two Shelby’s sit quietly at their places at the table, looking far too pleased with themselves.

Polly realizes this herself as Alfie turns the corner into the kitchen. She heaves a great, labouring sigh, and stands up, making room for the man. “Fine. John can go, as long as you take Tommy with you. Ada,” she points at the girl, “I’m taking you to school. Let’s go.”

“What?” Ada shouts, her face dropping dramatically. “Why do I have to go, but John doesn’t?” But she still stands up, though reluctantly. The two of them completely ignore Alfie, who just stands in the doorway, looking a bit lost.

“Because there’s hope for you yet.” Polly takes a final drink of her cup of tea, which she leaves on the table. “Tommy, make sure they behave themselves.”

“I’ll do my best.” Tommy nods, very serious. John snickers, undercutting his message a bit.

Polly doesn’t respond, just rolls her eyes and gestures for Ada to follow behind. As she passes, she nods politely at Alfie with a quick, “morning” thrown in for good measure. Ada follows sourly, not bothering to greet the man.

There’s a moment of silence as the front door slams behind the girls, where no one quite knows what to say. “Right,” Alfie says, shaking his head, and the strange interaction out of it. “Morning, Shelby family. You make quite the racket in the morning, did you know that?” He makes his way across the room to the kitchen to rummage around for food.

Tommy snorts in response, amused, but Arthur schools his expression into something more serious. “Better get used to it, yeah? If you’re going to be staying here.” John looks between his two brothers, unsure as to which of his older brother’s he should be copying. Finn just crushes a pile of mush with his chubby hand. Where the fuck is that girl, anyway?

“Right.” Alfie repeats, a bit more finality in his voice. He looks sleep-rumpled, as if he hadn’t slept very well. Tommy wouldn’t be surprised. The bed they’d given him was rock solid. He’s still looking through their half-empty cupboards, as if opening just one more would reveal a hidden cache of gourmet food.

Tommy stands up, following him into the kitchen proper, aware that Arthur isn’t about to help the man. “Need a hand?” He waits until he’s close enough to the man that he can speak a bit more quietly, but he’s determined that this interaction with Alfie will go a lot more smoothly than the last. Or a lot more appropriately, at least.

“I was worried you wouldn’t have anything kosher, mate, but now I’m just worried you haven’t any fucking food at all.” Alfie turns his entire body to look at him, a rather unpleasant expression on his face. It makes Tommy’s breath hitch, mouth opening a bit unconsciously at the threat inherent in his irritation. He corrects himself almost immediately, but he watches as Alfie’s eyes flicker down to his mouth. Perhaps his instinct had been right, and accompanying Arthur wouldn’t be a good idea, after all.

Tommy’s good at talking, however, and he’s gotten a lot of practice in dealing with angry people just living in this house for the past 19 years. He smiles, as gentle as he can make himself look, thinking very hard about what he’s doing now. He kicks himself internally for forgetting in his thoughts about the man’s interest in him, that he is still an exiled gangster, after all. He needs a bit more careful handling.

“It’s not much,” he admits, nodding, with his eyes wide open. “Lot of mouths to feed, never enough money.” He turns to his right, opening the cupboard that he knows holds the oats that Alfie had obviously ignored in his searching. “Afraid I don’t really know what is and isn’t kosher, but we’ve oats and honey. Pretty much all you can expect here.” He holds the oats out to the man, and gestures towards the kettle, still filled with water from the family making their own breakfast. He resists the slightly sarcastic urge to bat his eyelashes, sure that it would either come across as mocking, or as just laying it on much too thick.

“Hm,” Alfie takes the package from Tommy’s hand, not letting their fingers touch. He’s peering at him suspiciously, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Suppose it’ll do.”

Alfie makes no further move to start his own breakfast, so Tommy does it for him, placing the kettle back on the stove. He quirks a brow at him. “Speaking of making do, how did you sleep last night? Was the room to your liking?”

“Yeah, slept like a fucking baby, didn’t I?” Alfie leans back now, seemingly content that Tommy is making his breakfast for him. He’s clearly being sarcastic, or else he’s lying. “Thanks for asking, mate. Fine hotel you’re running here.”

Tommy’s still half facing the stove, turned away enough that he can hide his face a bit as he bites back a reply. There’s a half dozen cheeky responses floating around in his head, but he firmly stops himself from saying any of them, aware that they may be construed as being flirtatious. And he’s not the one flirting here.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says instead, very cautious in keeping his tone even. “Hear we’ve got a big day ahead of ourselves.”

“Yeah, think I heard the end of that. Why are you coming along then, eh? Thought you weren’t involved in the family business.” Alfie doesn’t seem to be working as hard at being casual. Now that Tommy has turned back to face him, he looks almost bored by the whole situation, though he is actively listening to their conversation. All the earlier hints of danger have faded in the morning light streaming in through the window.

“John wanted to go,” he replies, easily. He sees the boy in question tilt his head up when he hears his own name, pulling him out of a conversation he’d been having with Arthur. “I’m meant to watch out for him. Make sure you all don’t drag him into your life of crime.”

Alfie laughs at that, as if caught off guard. “My life of crime? Think you ought to take a good look at yourself then, mate, because you’re the one in a bonafide crime family.”

“Right, and you’re completely innocent of all crime, then?” Arthur’s looking up too, Tommy notices. They seem interested in what they’re talking about. Tommy’s definitely one of the more social members of the family, but he doesn’t generally get along with people _this_ quickly.

“Well,” and Alfie tilts his head at this, teeth glinting as he grins. His eyes are on Tommy’s mouth. “Maybe not _all_ crime, right.” 

It’s an innocent enough remark, one that will probably slip right past Arthur and John, but Tommy can feel a hint at a blush as he considers it. He chooses to not respond, but it leaves the comment to dangle in the air between them as they wait for the water to boil. Luckily, it’s at that moment that there is a knock on the back door, signaling the arrival of their long awaited nanny. Tommy feels himself exhale a bit in relief as Arthur and John’s attention is pulled away from him and Alfie. As Arthur stands up to let the girl in, John also gets up, saying something about going to get dressed before dashing up the stairs. He’s obviously excited for the chance to act like the gangster he hopes to be one day. He’ll be putting on his best suit, one that had only been passed down by Tommy before, and not by every man in their family first.

Alfie’s eyes follow the commotion, distracting him from Tommy for a moment, and he takes the opportunity to once again compose himself. He doesn’t know how he keeps getting so flustered by the man, and he does think he’s doing a good job, but it still feels like running a marathon every time he talks to him. He’s going to end up emotionally bankrupt by the time this day is over.

“Alfie.” Tommy says, pulling the man’s attention back to him. They’re going to get through this, and it’s going to be a perfectly normal day. “I trust you can take the cooking from here? Should probably get dressed as well.”

“Oh, you’re not wearing that, then?” Alfie, his attention firmly back on Tommy, waggles his eyebrows as he openly looks him up and down. Tommy, while yes, wearing more clothes than he would normally be, is still just in a threadbare pair of cotton trousers with an oversized shirt tugged on over top. He’s not exactly sure which of the Arthur’s this shirt had come from, exactly, though he might guess Sr, as it hangs over his body a bit looser than it generally does if it’s Jr. It’s exceedingly casual, and he would never even dream of wearing this outside of the house, and he gives Alfie an exasperated look as he tugs the collar of the shirt a bit tighter around his throat to hide his exposed collarbones. Hadn't he promised to act like a gentleman? They might have different definitions.“Pity. Quite like that on you.”

“I’m sure you do.” Tommy responds quietly, averting his eyes. Not totally sure of what else to say, he chooses to retreat instead, passing the nanny on his way, patting her shoulder in greeting. “I’ll be ready shortly, Arthur.” He calls over his shoulder for good measure. Arthur shouts something about being quick about it as he bounds up the stairs.

Once safely sealed in his bedroom, Tommy released a deep breath that he’s been holding in since Alfie showed up in the kitchen. He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror beside his wardrobe, looking back at him with wide eyes. He frowns, studying his own expression, still unable to place why exactly Alfie made him feel like this, why the man made him so bloody nervous that he couldn’t even think of a single thing to say to him. It wasn’t as if he were stumbling over his words or anything, he still thought he was keeping his composure quite well, but it wasn’t as if he had to try this hard with anyone else. Even looking at himself in the mirror, he can tell there’s something off about his face, something slightly worried about the pull of his lips. He can hear John rattling around in his own room, door swung wide open as he pours through his own clothing, and the sound of it calms him down a bit. He turns to his wardrobe, blinking away the image of his face in the mirror.

Tommy takes the longest out of all the Shelby brothers to get dressed. It’s just a simple fact, he does. Arthur gets dressed all in a rush, as if in a race against himself to see how quickly he can do it. John takes a bit longer, in that phase of youth where he doesn’t want to spend that much time looking at himself. Tommy takes the longest, and it’s not because he’s more insecure than his brothers— John’s a teenager, after all, and no one has more capacity for self-loathing than a 14 year old— but he’s more careful about it all. Looking as if he’s put together is one of his greatest skills, honed to perfection from a lifetime of being poor but unwilling to show exactly _how_ poor. No one booted you out of pubs, or gave you a funny look on the street if the suit you’re wearing is well-fitted and free of dirt or grime. Sure, every piece of clothing in his wardrobe had been given to him by his father or his brother, but every piece was well taken care of, hemmed with careful fingers, tears repaired before they could ruin the fabric. He’s been noticing the slight change in the style of suits, seeing the mannequins in tailor’s shops changing to different fabric, different cuts of the collar. He’d had the top button taken out in one of his jackets to better emulate the current style, because even if no one else would immediately notice the shifting of style, _he_ knew.

And so he takes a bit longer, because he has to be sure that everything looks proper, that no threads are coming loose, that no wrinkles are visible. He doesn’t pick anything too fancy, nothing that he wouldn’t mind getting dirty if the day happened to go sideways as they are apt to do when Arthur and Peaky business is involved. He eyes his cap, hidden away on a hook inside a wardrobe, and ultimately decides to bring it along with him. If he’s going to be walking with gangsters, it wouldn’t do to not look the part. He holds it in his hand, careful of the concealed razors under the brim. He can’t bring himself to put it on, not a second before he absolutely has to.

“Oi! Tommy, let’s go! Or we’re leaving you behind!” He can hear Arthur shouting from the ground floor, and he gives himself one last look in the mirror before departing. He looks entirely presentable, though he could do with a haircut, if he does so say himself. He’d shorn it quite short the last time he’d been to a proper barber, but it was beginning to curl out just below his ears again. Maybe he could ask Polly to fix it for him tonight.

“Took your damn time,” Arthur grunts at him as he meets the other three, convening again at the kitchen table. Alfie is perched by the window overlooking the street, John on his right. The two of them seem to have been chatting, interrupted by Tommy’s arrival. They’re getting along. That’s good, probably, right?

“Fuck off,” Tommy turns to look at his older brother, rolling his eyes at him. “We going or what?”

They go, locking the front door behind them as they do. Tommy’s still not wearing his cap, feels suddenly embarrassed to have brought it at all. He’s going to look like a child wearing his father’s clothing, trying to impress the older boys so they’ll let him play marbles (or, with switchblades, as is more likely in Birmingham) with them. No one really seems to notice his internal struggle, Arthur walking up ahead with John and Alfie, pointing out important landmarks and people as they go with Tommy trailing along behind them. Arthur has a way of walking the streets that makes him look more intimidating than he actually is, which is still quite a lot. Tommy can think of the man as the boy who would play hide and seek with him when they were kids, but to the rest of the world, Arthur is dangerous. And sure, he’s quick to throw the first punch, but still not so quick with a razor. He’s not bloodthirsty, just hot tempered. 

Alfie’s still a mystery, as far as potential for violence is concerned. Tommy’s sure he’s probably dangerous, but to what extent, he doesn’t know. He knows that he didn’t murder them all in their beds the night before, so that had been a promising start. He knows that the London gang he’d come from hadn’t wanted him there, but Tommy was starting to formulate his own opinion on that. But one thing about the man is clear, Tommy thinks as he follows along behind the men, is that Alfie is _smart._ He can tell, he had been able to tell before, but it’s even more evident now as he listens to Arthur speak, listens to him explaining the ins and outs of their city, of the business the Peaky’s have going on. He doesn’t comment much, just absorbs the information as it is given to him. He listens as they bring him about town, Arthur going into far more detail than the situation actually warrants. John’s not helping matters, pointing out every single person that he recognizes, whether they actually matter in the grand scheme of things or not. And he’ll point out buildings like, “that’s the place Aunt Pol gets the really good tea leaves,” or, “that’s where the girl I like at school lives,” as if Alfie would ever want to know something like that.

When they get down to the tracks, Arthur pulls Alfie to where he knows the people who spend good money on betting will be waiting, and Tommy takes John aside. John’s furious about it, but Tommy had told Polly that he’d keep the boy out of any major trouble, so he pulls him down to look at the horses. There’s not many people around, but they can spot a couple of horses with their riders, preparing for races that would happen later in the day. Tommy points out what he can spot from this distance; whether a horse is walking funny, or if he knows that a rider is a drunk, and it feels nice. As they had been walking, the sun had peeked out from behind the clouds, bringing them an unexpectedly sunny day. The heat had started to beat down on Tommy, who had reluctantly donned his hat to shield himself from the sun. John, after getting past his initial disappointment, had warmed up to just leaning against the fences, probably just satisfied that he wasn’t cooped up at the schoolhouse. Tommy briefly resists the urge to pull out another cigarette, but gives in after John gives him a pleading look, eyes silently begging to have one too. Tommy sighs, but lights up John’s, then his own. He’d been smoking a lot, more than he usually does. Should probably take it easy at some point, but not now.

Just when Tommy had begun considering going to look for them, Arthur and Alfie come striding out of some back building, muttering quick words to each other. Neither of them seem angry or anything, but it seems as if whatever they’re talking about is serious. Tommy shoots Arthur a questioning look as they approach, who ignores him in favour of blinking stupidly at Alfie.

“It’s tradition, right? It’s customary for the host to offer, in order to properly benefit off of our mutual profession and the accompanying friendship. Really, it’s quite rude, it is, to deny a guest this simple favour.”

Arthur grunts as the two men come to a stop in front of Tommy and John. Arthur’s not stupid, but sometimes he has a bit of trouble processing what people say to him. If he cannot immediately understand someone’s meaning, he tends to shut down the communication part of his brain, and go straight on the offensive. Tommy can see him flailing a bit, brows furrowed deep as he puzzles over whatever the two were talking about. Alfie turns to the other two Shelby’s in the meantime. “You lads alright? Tommy, has that cigarette been sewn onto your fingers? Are you in some sort of competition to find out how quickly you can lose the sensation of taste?”

Tommy looks between the two men, deciding quickly that whatever they’d been talking about, it couldn’t have been that awful, and Arthur doesn’t seem liable to snap. He cracks a smile at Alfie instead, who has settled at his left side against the fence. “Don’t think I could find a medical professional willing to sew one to my fingers, but it’s certainly an interesting idea. What’re you two talking about?”

“Interested, are you?” Alfie’s voice is teasing, pantomiming elbowing him in the ribs. “Perhaps it’s a secret, something for just us Peaky’s, eh?”

Arthur, who had still looked a bit confused, was grinning now. The two men must have bonded in the last half hour. “Oi, but look at him, my little brother with his cap and everything. He’s a Peaky, alright.”

“I’m not a Peaky.”

“If Tommy’s a Peaky, I get to be one too!” John’s butting in now, and Arthur simply responds by grabbing the boy in a headlock, cap falling to the ground as he ruffles his hair with his knuckles. John’s shouting for him to get off, but he’s laughing a bit.

“Was just saying, yeah,” Alfie’s voice cuts through the commotion, or at least it does from Tommy’s close proximity. “That we ought to do something to celebrate our new friendship, seeing as I am for all intents and purposes, a member of your little gang while I am trapped in this city.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows at the word trapped. Is that how he sees himself? Trapped in Birmingham? He wonders for what feels like the thousandth time what exactly happened down in London for Alfie to end up here. Should he ask? Or will the topic be too fresh, too sore?

“That’s all you were saying?” Arthur interrupts, releasing John from his grip, who straightens himself up hastily. “You could’ve just said you wanted to get a drink.”

“My sincerest apologies, mate. How about we get ourselves a drink, then?”

They make their way down to the Garrison, the only pub willing to serve them regularly, despite the fact that they can not pay regularly. Arthur just needs to glower a bit and they’re seated in the corner, at the table Arthur always sits in, blocked off from the rest of the pub. Tommy never sits in here if it’s just him, never bothers trying to throw his name around even though it will usually work, especially since the Peaky’s started moving in on providing protection and beatings. He slides into the booth, tossing his hat on the table in front of him, eager to get it off. Alfie slides in beside him, which he largely ignores, until he realizes that Arthur and John aren’t sitting down with them. “I’ll grab us a bottle, eh? And how about a cup of water for you, John boy?”

“Fuck off, I want more than just water, Arthur!” John’s putting up a fight again, following his eldest brother as they leave through the door back out into the bar. 

It leaves Tommy and Alfie sitting alone, Tommy staring at the door as it swings closed behind his brothers. He hears Alfie shifting beside him, making himself comfortable, and Tommy doesn’t even need to look to know that the man is grinning. “Alone again. Well, what a fortuitous turn of circumstances.”

“Fortuitous indeed.” Tommy turns his body towards the man, unwilling to make himself appear to be afraid or nervous around him. He just needs to lead the conversation where he’d like it to go, and everything would be fine. “I see you’ve been getting along with my brothers.”

Alfie is smiling, but it’s not as smug as he had been imagining it in his head. It’s not exactly kind, maybe just a bit teasing. “I have been. Good blokes, your brothers. Though you’ve no need to worry your pretty head, I’ve still got only one favourite Shelby brother.”

“Thank God, I was worried.” Tommy remarks drily, but Alfie keeps going. 

“They remind me a bit of the lads back in London, though I suppose they’ve all got quite a bit in common. Easy to get along with men like that, once you know what to talk about. Only thing on the mind is fighting, fucking, and making money. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, cannot say that it’s not where my mind is most often, as well.”

“Only three things? You think my brothers that simple-minded?”

“Yeah, reckon I do,” Alfie is pulling at his beard, smoothing it down as he seemingly considers his words. “But that’s just all men, innit? Not that your brothers are more or less dense than anyone else, just that men, right, men are simple creatures that only understand things as far as they can punch it or put their dicks in it. If you were to take a room full of men, no matter their status or how much money they’ve got in their little banks and set them on each other, they’d fucking do it, right, no hesitation and they’d tear each other apart.”

Tommy nods along as he listens, thinking about what the man’s saying. He hasn’t heard him talk this much, and he wonders if this is normal for Alfie. “Pretty bleak look at your fellow man.”

Alfie snorts at that. “Yeah, well, men are pretty bleak, aren’t they? Not that I mind so much. You know I do prefer them, fucking sodomite I am, and sometimes the natural inclination towards violence is exactly what I’m in the mood for.”

And, there it is, Tommy thinks to himself, right out in the open. Wasn’t he supposed to be steering this conversation in the complete opposite direction? He’s just lucky that Arthur and John are taking an eternity to grab their drinks. He has to ask, laughing a bit in his discomfort. “Christ, Alfie. Tell me, are you this open with every person you meet? Aren’t you afraid I’m going to tell everyone your secrets?”

“Nah,” Alfie waves a hand in the air, dismissive. “You won’t tell. And I only tell the people that I want to know, don’t I?”

“You wanted me to know.” Tommy repeats, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. They’ve unconsciously started leaning in closer to each other, which he only really notices as the door swings open again. He jolts back, almost comically so, Alfie completely still and unflinching as Arthur throws himself on Alfie’s other side. John’s not far behind, holding a pint of what looks like beer in his hand, a smug expression decorating his face. Arthur slides glasses out between the three older men, pouring a generous amount of whiskey into each glass.

“Right, here we go, eh?” Arthur’s grinning, completely oblivious of the slightly tense exchange that he’s interrupting. He smacks Alfie on the back as he picks up his glass. “Cheers, to our _accompanying friendship_.” He lowers his voice into a rough growl, imitating Alfie’s words from earlier. Tommy watches the two, watches as Alfie’s eyes flicker to his for a split-second, and it feels as if they’re somehow sharing a private joke, before Alfie raises his glass and clinks it against the eldest Shelby brother’s glass. Tommy picks up his own, sipping at it before they can try and rope him into this camaraderie. John’s already halfway down his beer. Tommy can’t wait to go home.

*

Tommy makes a conscious effort to stay scarce from then on. It’s for the best, he had decided, after that conversation in The Garrison. It was obvious that he had no control over the conversation wherever Alfie was involved, and that every subsequent go at communication would just result in Alfie saying something inappropriate that would make Tommy’s stomach clench with discomfort. Discomfort? He’s not exactly sure what his stomach clenches with, but he knows it’s doing something that he’s sure he doesn’t approve of. So staying far, far away is the best course of action.

It’s not exactly a simple task. He ends up spending as little time at home as he can manage, often leaving before the sun is fully up, and returning after he’s sure everyone will be in bed. It doesn’t go unnoticed, Polly intercepts him one morning when he’s on his way out, standing guard in the doorway as if she had woken early specifically to do this. He knows she hasn’t, knows that it’s ridiculous, but it’s how it feels.

“And where are you going?” Her voice is no more sharp than usual, but there’s an edge of suspicion in it, as if she’s genuinely confused as to what he’s up to. It’s early, so Tommy’s brain is chugging a bit slower than it might normally.

He shrugs, hopeful that it seems casual. “Off to the stables?” He says it as if it should be obvious, as if he had always fucked off in the morning before the sun was even in the sky.

Polly narrows her eyes, but doesn’t say anything more, just turns on her heels and disappears through a doorway. Tommy flees before she changes her mind and decides to interrogate him properly.

Later, when he’s safely hidden in the stables at Charlie’s yard, there before even the horses are fully awake, he curls up against a bale of hay and the wall, hiding himself from view. It’s a cold morning, the air clinging wetly onto everything it touches, and he knows instinctively that it’s to rain later on. This is really the best course of action. It is. Sure, he could be sleeping peacefully in his warm bed at home. Sure, he could be waking up later, eating breakfast with his family, talking and laughing and telling jokes with them, but this would do. 

He picks up a piece of hay, twirling it between his fingers. He wants a smoke, but he’s not stupid enough to do so while surrounded by hay in a wooden stable. Plus, a plume of smoke would reveal his location, not that he’s _hiding_. He’s just comfortable tucked in his little pocket of the stable, walls blocking out the worst of the wind and chill. He should get up soon, should start onto the work that actually does need to be done, but he’ll wait just a few minutes more. 

It’s just. He can’t stop thinking about him. The hay between his fingers spins out and away to the ground, so he picks up another. He’s been waking up early for a week now, sneaking off to work, spending his evenings with Greta and her family, who have only just begun to stop despising him. He’s held her in his arms day after day after day, and it’s _good,_ it really is, he’s perfectly content to sit with the horses and then sit in the Jurossi kitchen with Greta and her mother keeping a close eye on them. He’s gotten to watch the older woman’s eyes become softer and softer with each subsequent day that he returns, watches as she comes to think of him less and less of _one of those Peaky devils_ , and it has been gratifying in a way that he could not explain. And yet, still, the only thing that he could think about as he snuck back into the house at night and tucked himself away under the blankets, or when he was picking muck out of the horses’ shoes, or when he’s able to steal a moment with Greta when her mum’s looking the other way, the only thing he could think about was the stranger in his house.

And not in _that_ way— at least, he doesn’t think it’s in _that_ way— but he cannot deny to himself that his thoughts keep being roped into the ghosts of the conversations that they’ve had, into puzzling over the minute details of something that Alfie had said to him that he thinks might mean something else. Or, if they didn’t mean something else, that they just meant something more than Tommy had originally interpreted. He doesn’t think that he had misunderstood, as Alfie had been nothing if not clear in his affections (affections? Admiration? Desire?), but he still can’t stop pouring over the words in his head, analyzing every syllable that he’d said, and the cadence with which he had said it. 

Worst yet, he can’t help but criticize himself, what he had said and his own actions around the man. Had he himself done something to somehow encourage him? He’s sure that he hadn’t, is sure that Alfie’s flirting had come about completely naturally, his words blooming into existence as soon as he had thought of them. And he didn’t mind it at all, he comes to realize now that he’s had the time to properly reflect. He doesn’t hate the attention. It had all felt a bit nice, having someone admire you so sincerely that they’d risk a thrashing or a jail cell just to express their affections (admiration? Desire? Required more pondering).

He’s also sure that he’s being painfully obvious about the whole thing. Polly might have not been able to quite figure out why he’d been spending so much time away, but he’s sure that Alfie probably could. He supposed that would be answer enough to the flirting, his complete withdrawal, but he knows he’s being childish about it. If he had been a stronger man, a braver man, he’d not be going to so much trouble in order to avoid him. He should stop all of this, and just deal with it. Go home.

It was certainly something to think about, he nods to himself, hay still rolling between his fingers idly as he stares straight at the wall in front of him. For the time being, he’d keep on hiding in the stables, and hiding at Greta’s. Mrs. Jurossi was making a roast for dinner, afterall. Wouldn’t want to miss that. 

*

When he gets home that night, stomach pleasantly full of roasted beef, it’s to a bright house. The rain that he had predicted had been pouring for the better half of the day, and he’s happy to let himself into a warm house, only a bit reluctant to face whoever was awake inside.

Turns out, everyone is bloody awake, judging by the racket coming from the dining room (not ever used for dining, but for family meetings where they can scream at each other at their leisure thanks to the high ceiling). Is he missing a family meeting, he wonders, as he hangs up his wet coat to dry, venturing further inside with curiosity. He doesn’t attend the meetings with regularity, it’s always about the business, and Tommy doesn’t care about any of that unless it directly affects him or they’re planning something particularly dangerous. But he can hear John’s voice in the ruckus, and John’s not allowed at family meetings, last he’d checked. He pauses for a moment on the threshold, trying to differentiate between any of the other voices, but it’s impossible. So what if Alfie’s in there? So what if he’s been obviously avoiding him? It’s his house, isn’t it?

He opens the set of double doors, the noise almost crashing into him as he takes in the scene before him. It’s not a family meeting, he can immediately tell. Or if it once was, it isn’t anymore, as they’re all drunk and playing cards. 

“Tommy!” Arthur (Jr) booms at him, cheeks a ruddy red flush as he jolts to his feet, arms thrown out widely. Everyone can see his cards as he gestures at his brother’s appearance, something that everyone else at the table takes full advantage of as they glance between Tommy at the door and Arthur. Tommy can’t stop the smile sliding over his face, hair still dripping a bit from the rain as he considers the scene before him. Everyone’s here, even a few of the men from the betting shop, with a surprisingly large pile of pound notes and coins on the centre of the table being guarded by a clearly drunk Arthur Sr. Everyone but the youngest Shelby’s are present, probably tucked in their beds, and Tommy can only imagine the fuss Ada must have put up to have been banned while John had been allowed to stay. 

“Thomas,” Polly lays her cards face down on the table, her slightly amused expression turning down into one of concern as she rises from her seat to approach him. She’s got that flush to her cheeks as well, always gets a bit more concerned and motherly towards the older boys once she’s had a drink. Behind her, John shifts over in his seat to take a look at her cards, only to be smacked swiftly in the back of the head by Scudboat. “You’re soaking wet, going to catch your death. Where have you been?”

“Been avoiding us, he has.” Arthur calls out, still grinning as he seats himself once again, taking a long swig from his glass. Alfie’s seated beside him, which Tommy had noticed, but he had been careful to not let his eyes rest on the man for too long. 

“I have not,” Tommy argues, just to be contrary as Polly fusses over him, pulling off his only slightly damp suit jacket, and hanging it in front of the fire. “What are you doing?” He protests, but still lets her, standing there in just his shirt, shivering a little.

Polly turns back to the rest of the room, scanning over the men, a little unsteady on her feet. Polly could handle her liquor better than any of them, so Tommy knows that she must have drank a lot to even be showing this amount of drunkenness. “Have any of you lot a coat for our dear Thomas? Fool’s been out in the rain.”

“John boy,” Arthur Sr. pipes up for the first time, eyes a bit crossed as he examines his cards. “Fetch your brother a blanket, eh?”

Just as Tommy is about to protest, he’s interrupted by the screech of a chair sliding across the wooden floor and the voice he’d been thinking about for the last week. “Not necessary,” Alfie says, rising to his feet, picking up a sweater that he’d had draped over the back of his chair. Tommy is sure that the man must have magicked the thing up, can’t imagine Alfie actually wearing a fuzzy knit cardigan, but there it is. Alfie crosses to where Tommy is still stood in the doorway, approaching slowly, as if Tommy were a scared horse that might bolt at any moment. Tommy supposes he deserved that, studying the man’s face as he got closer. He almost looked amused, as if this business of walking slowly and carefully was all a show that he had orchestrated, just for Tommy. Can’t imagine who else it might be for. “Would you like to make use of my sweater? You’re shivering like a wet dove, mate.”

Tommy snorts, staring at the man who has now come to a stop slightly to his side, aware of Polly’s eyes on his face. “Are doves particularly known for their shivering?”

Alfie smiles, eyes dark. “No, no, not in particular, I don’t think, but it seemed apt for this _particular_ situation. Dove that you are. May I?” He holds the sweater up, sliding so he’s more behind Tommy than beside.

Tommy glances at Polly, who is watching the whole exchange with a strange expression. She raises a single eyebrow at him, hands still held in front of her as if she were not done fussing, but she retreats without another word and returns to her seat.

The room is still noisy, the collective attention firmly back on the game still going on. Tommy looks over his shoulder to look at Alfie, who has also been watching for Polly’s reaction. Upon making eye contact, Alfie releases a quick huff from his nostrils, still looking far more amused by the situation than Tommy. On the contrary, Tommy couldn’t find anything about it funny, could feel his stomach doing that odd heaving thing as the world closed in on him, reducing its wide reach onto that few feet of space between Alfie and himself. The rest goes quiet. 

Alfie holds the sweater up again, a bit higher, broadcasting his movements before he acts on them, and Tommy doesn’t stop him as he begins to slide the cardigan over his shoulders. Is this the first time they’ve touched? Is this the first time anyone’s ever touched him? It’s a stupid thought, but it comes rearing out of nowhere, and his breath hitches a bit at the feeling of Alfie’s fingers through the layers of fabric. 

“You’re tense, _Thomas_ ,” Alfie’s never called him Thomas before, had always called him Tommy. It sounds strange, coming from his lips. His voice is low, breath blowing on the back of his neck, making the hair there stand up. The sweater is on, Tommy had put his arms through the sleeves, but it doesn’t stop Alfie from touching him, one hand grazing down his spine, out of view of everyone else in the room. Tommy stares straight ahead. “Lad like you shouldn’t be so tense. You have got to find a way to alleviate some of this tension.” Then, as if they had never been there, Alfie’s hand leaves his back with just one last pat. Alfie smiles at him as he crosses, returning to his seat and leaving Tommy frozen in the doorway. The sweater is massive on him, and smells overwhelmingly of the man. Something distinctly woodsy and masculine, but also like smoke and smog and rum. 

_Fuck,_ Tommy thinks. _Fuck._

*

Tommy sneaks off a bit later, having joined in a round of cards at the insistence of his brothers. He sits down by Polly, who doesn’t say a word about Alfie, to his immense relief. Sitting by her means that he has to sit near to his father, who is too absorbed in the card game to really acknowledge Tommy. He probably hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t spending much time at home. Probably wouldn’t care, either.

Tommy was under no allusions about their father, though his brothers might be. Arthur Sr. wasn’t a good man. None of them really were— the Shelby’s had been stealing and running illegal operations for longer than Tommy can actually remember. He remembers their grandfather, long dead now, and his refusal to allow any honest money into their house. Even so, Tommy remembers him being a gruff and severe man, but also a kind one, especially to the children. Arthur was not, even when they were just boys. He had his moments, and had his clear favourites (which Tommy had never been), but on the whole, he was a poor excuse for a father.

Sitting up by him, Tommy doesn’t allow his gaze to wander anywhere _near_ Alfie, is too focused on making himself seem calm, making himself seem as if he were not vibrating with a kind of nervous energy he’d never really experienced before. It makes him play his cards poorly, and he immediately takes the opportunity to leave. John shouts something at him as he excuses himself, and Tommy steals his glass of whiskey (he shouldn’t have it anyway, so he’s doing him a favour), draining it quickly as he makes his escape. He bids the room good night before he disappears around the corner, can’t help himself from taking one final look at Alfie as he goes. He’s looking up at him. He’s always looking back at him. Tommy hides the flush in his cheeks and sprints up the stairs.

Once in his room, Tommy slams the door and tosses himself into his bed, burying his face in his pillow. He feels weird. He feels tingly all over, and all he can smell is the sweater he’s still wearing. He rolls onto his back, tugging the fabric up to his face and tighter around his shoulders. He’s not even stretching it out, it’s so big on him. That fact makes his heart do a funny leap in his chest.

“What is going on with me?” He says outloud, to the empty room. The act of it feels foolish, makes him feel like a boy again, pining over a crush, but it can’t be that, because Tommy isn’t that way. He’s not. He can’t be. But why does it feel so similar? Why does it feel exactly how it did when he was younger and he had a crush on some girl but couldn’t summon the courage to tell her he liked her? 

He liked Alfie, he could wrap his head around that, liked him a lot more than he had originally thought when he’d first heard about him coming to Birmingham. Liked him like he liked Freddie, or one of the other lads from school before they got too busy in the factories to really spend any time with him. Friendship was familiar and easy to him. He could like Alfie as a friend. That made sense. He liked him like a friend, and he wanted to spend more time with him. Maybe they could spend more time together? Nevermind the fact that he’d been sneaking off every day for the past week so he wouldn’t have to spend more time with Alfie, that had never made sense. Thinking about it, as he stared up at the ceiling with Alfie’s sweater pulled tight against his body, he couldn’t quite remember why exactly he had decided to run away. Alfie flirted, sure, whatever, but was that really a reason to avoid him so completely? 

He can almost still feel Alfie’s fingers drawing down his spine, can almost feel the ghost of his breath on his neck. It makes him want to shiver, makes him want to go back downstairs and sit at Alfie’s side and listen to whatever else he had to say. Or bring Alfie back upstairs, so maybe they could talk a bit in private, so Alfie didn’t have to watch his words quite so much. Yeah, some time together. That might be nice.

He starts to drift off a bit, before he’s roused again by the sounds of footsteps on the landing outside his room. It’s still dark, the candle that Tommy had lit having burned down, so he must have only dozed off for a little while. At the sounds of the footsteps, he’s suddenly wide awake, listening intently to the sounds outside the safety of his room.

It sounds like two sets of footsteps, one of them stumbling and uneven, the other the complete opposite. 

“Here you go, lad. Almost there.” It’s unmistakably Alfie’s voice, sounding a bit out of breath, as if he were carrying something heavy. He hears the sound of a door crashing open, the stumbling getting a bit faster. The noise fades just a bit, getting farther away. Then, the thump of a body and the creak of a bedspring. The steady footsteps return, and a door is shut gently. Alfie must have brought a drunk John up to his bedroom, Tommy thinks, and the thought makes him feel warm. All thoughts subsequently freeze when he realizes that the footsteps have once again stopped, this time, right outside of his door.

Time seems to stand still. It’s Alfie out there. What would happen if he knocked? What would Tommy do? What would happen if he didn’t knock at all? What would happen if he just cracked the door open, and slipped inside? What would happen? Would he just stand in the doorway, peering in, trying to catch a glimpse while he was asleep? What would happen if he saw him awake? Would he crawl into Tommy’s bed? Would Tommy let him? He surely wouldn’t let him. He surely wouldn’t. Would he?

He doesn’t knock. The footsteps retreat. The door to the room beside his opens, and shuts, taking the potential promise that those footsteps brought away with them. Tommy releases a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. He’s tense. God, he is tense, Alfie was right. He clenches his eyes shut, breathing in the man’s scent, ignoring the tingly feeling in his body. He’ll be awake for hours, listening for the sound of footsteps.

*

He must manage to fall asleep at some point, as he finds himself blinking awake to the sun streaming through the window. He’s slept in. If he strains his ears, he thinks he might be able to hear the noises from the house waking up downstairs. So, he slept in _very_ late.

He considers that as he gets up, grabs his pack of cigarettes and goes to sit at the window. It’s clearly too late to sneak out, and more than that, he doesn’t really feel like leaving. He lights the cigarette, opening the window wide, letting the room air out. It’s a beautiful day, the rain from the day before leaving the air feeling somehow fresher. He peers down at the street, an idea slowly forming in his head. It’d be a nice day for a ride. He could take one of the horses, maybe get out of Birmingham for a little while, go out somewhere that he could see grass and trees and nature. It’s early enough that he could go out and be back before the sun went down.

Does Alfie ride horses? Maybe Alfie’d like to go with him. Should he invite him? Some company on the ride would be nice. He’s still wearing the sweater, scent mixing with his own from sleeping in it, he should at least return that before he goes. Should go talk to him now. He stands up, throwing the cigarette out the window as he turns on his heels. He’s going to ask before he can change his mind. He shrugs the sweater from his shoulders, folding it carefully over his arm as he exits his room and heads towards Alfie’s. He wonders, briefly, if he should wash the sweater before returning it, but there’s a tiny voice in his head that tells him he shouldn’t. The tiny voice likes that the sweater will smell like him when Alfie gets it back. He shakes his hands out, which are suddenly feeling very numb before he knocks on the door. 

He doesn’t actually know if Alfie is in his room, doesn’t know when he wakes up. He’s always gone before he might have the chance of running into him. That first morning though, he’d gotten up quite late, hadn’t he? 

He doesn’t have to wonder for very long, the sound of someone stirring from within the room reaching him soon enough. He can hear the creak of the bed, can almost imagine that he can hear the man rolling out of bed, of stretching out his back before he lumbers to the door.

When the door opens, it’s quite obvious that Tommy had woken him. His hair is a disaster, even more so than usual, a wild mess of tangles, especially at the back of his head. It’s dark in the doorway, but Tommy can see the tiredness in his eyes, barely pried open wide enough to see who is standing in front of him. When he recognizes that it’s Tommy, however, he seems to make an active effort to perk himself up a bit.

“Er, good morning.” Tommy’s heart thunders in his chest. He’s still holding the sweater, though, so he holds it out with hands that he manages to keep from trembling. “I wanted to return your sweater.”

Alfie rakes a large hand over his face, wiping some sleep out of his eye as he does so. He looks soft when he’s just woken up, Tommy notes. It’s almost endearing. “Wow, thank you very much, mate. Don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t woken me at the crack of dawn to return it. Was quite lost without it.”

“I thought you might be.” Tommy smiles at the sarcasm, smiles in the way that he can’t quite help around Alfie. He fidgets a bit with his hands now that they’re empty, and Alfie notices the movement with his quick eyes. It would be best to just get this over with, before he embarrasses himself completely. “I, er, was wondering, Alfie,” he pauses to clear his throat, feeling his voice getting stuck in his esophagus, but then continues on. Alfie’s watching him very carefully. “Well, it’s a nice day out. Was going to go take a horse out towards Worcester, though not all the way there. It gets… quite green.”

He stops talking then, his sentence trailing off as he loses more and more confidence. What’s he doing, exactly? His heart is still hammering away in his chest, something that for all he knows, Alfie can tell. The man doesn’t reply, just keeps standing there in the doorway, holding his sweater, but the sleepiness has seemed to drain from his body and is rapidly being replaced by a look of… amusement?

“Right. Sounds like a lovely day you’ve got planned for yourself, Thomas. You enjoy yourself, eh?”

That wasn’t supposed to happen. Tommy furrows his brows, confused. Was Alfie teasing him? His smirk certainly suggested that he was. Had he been imagining things before? No, he couldn’t have been. Alfie had been quite clear. He can feel his ears heating up, a bit humiliated, despite the fact that he has no reason to be. He should just turn on his heels and walk down the stairs, leave Alfie to his sleep. He’s probably got better things to do than ride horses with Thomas, afterall. 

He doesn’t turn away. There’s a nagging feeling in the back of his head, insisting that he try again. He wants Alfie to come with him. He wants to spend time with him. He wants to ride horses with him. “Would enjoy myself even more if you came with me.”

The look on Alfie’s face is undeniably a smirk, growing larger as he listens to Tommy. “Oh, was that an invitation? Sorry mate, didn’t hear one when you first started talking.” He leans now, heavily on the doorframe, and Tommy resists the urge to lean as well, wanting to mirror the man. “I think that sounds like a fine plan, Thomas, and I’d be delighted to accompany you on your journey towards all the _green_ as you said, though I do have just one objection. Does it have to be on horseback?” 

Tommy blinks, though the relief that floods through his body at that, _I’d be delighted to accompany you,_ overwhelms any other emotion he might be feeling. Giddily, he tilts his head to the side, a warm smile on his face. “Sorry, our carriage is in the shop. It’ll have to be on horseback. You can ride, can’t you?”

“‘Course I can bloody ride,” Alfie grumbles, unconvincingly. He waves a hand in the air, dismissing Tommy’s teasing. “Just don’t bloody like horses, do I? Though I know that’s probably sacrilege to you gypsies.”

Tommy scoffs. “How can you not like horses?”

“Very fuckin’ easily, yeah. Don’t trust a prey animal that large. Should’ve grown razor teeth by this point, they should have.”

“I don’t think they can just choose to grow sharp teeth.”

“Sure they can.” Alfie waves another dismissive hand through the air. “Could have mated with some sort of predator, like a lion, or perhaps one of ‘em big wolves they’ve got in America. Heard those American wolves are as big as bears.”

“Big as bears?” Tommy tries to picture it, but he hasn’t a clear enough picture of a wolf in his head to begin with. The only dogs he’s ever seen are the scrappy little ones that roam the streets, and what he’s seen in his school books when he was young. Still, that doesn’t sound like it could possibly be true. Surely, if there were bear-sized wolves roaming the forests in America, they’d have heard of it by now? “Is that true?”

“Nah,” Alfie’s grinning, seemingly delighted that Tommy had believed him at all. “Well, actually, no fucking clue, mate. There could be, though.”

“Alfie.” Tommy tries to make his voice sound cross, but he’s pretty sure he’s failed miserably. He’s still smiling, for one. “Are you coming with me or not?”

Alfie nods, looking eager now. “I suppose I will bite the bullet and ride some bloody horses with you. As long as you will find me one who will be gentle, and will not kick me off of it for no reason at all.”

“Can’t guarantee that. Our horses are from Birmingham, afterall.” He lifts a hand, shoves playfully at Alfie’s shoulder. It makes his stomach leap into his throat as he does it, but it’s worth it to get a feel at the firmness of his shoulder. “Go get dressed. I’ll pack us a lunch.” 

*

Alfie, as it turns out, wasn’t lying when he said he could ride. He can. Knows how to properly get up onto the saddle, and everything. Tommy had found him the gentlest mare they had, one who was a few years past the point of being anything but a financial burden to them, but had kept her anyway. Her name is Buttercup, and she’s pretty and grey and it had been endlessly funny watching the gangster try and befriend her. Tommy had handed him a few sugar cubes that Curly always kept for treats, that warm feeling back as he watched the man suspiciously regard the mare, as if she really might have razor blade teeth. The warmth had spread all throughout him, as Alfie eventually fed her the cubes, patting her on the neck with his other hand, looking back at Tommy with a silly grin as if to say, _see?_

Tommy couldn’t decide if all of this was awkward or not. They’d managed to leave the Shelby house with very little trouble— the Arthur’s had been sleeping, Polly had just left to take Ada and John (John likely grumbling all the while) to school when Tommy arrived in the kitchen to make a couple of sandwiches for the ride. Tommy had asked if Alfie had anything he had to do that day, when Alfie eventually found his way to the kitchen, but he’d told him that any Peaky business he’d had could wait a day. And so they’d left.

The walk to the stables hadn’t been quiet, but it hadn’t exactly been comfortable. Alfie talked the whole time, talked about nonsense that Tommy could barely keep up with, and Tommy was good at keeping up with conversation. He was just in the middle of a tangent about beetles when they’d reached Charlie’s yard, which allowed for the pleasant distraction of introducing Alfie to the horses.

He has a quick word with Curly, asking him to please take care of the horses while he was gone, and they’re off. Tommy’s on his own favourite horse, a black mare Ada had named Jupiter, because Polly had given her that book about planets that she couldn’t stop pouring over. Jupiter was by no means an easy horse to handle, but she and Tommy had a certain rapport that meant that she tolerated him as long as he continued feeding her apples. He’d packed their saddlebags with their food and water for the day, then began the slow process of actually getting out of Birmingham on horseback. Slow, because the heavy machinery of the factories would spook the horses and meant they had to weave through side streets to avoid the worst of it, and slow because Tommy didn’t want to push Alfie and Buttercup any faster than he needed to. 

The ride is relatively quiet, the only communication between the two men is when Tommy turns back on his saddle to ensure that Alfie hasn’t somehow been bucked off silently when he wasn’t looking. Alfie performs admirably, only looks a bit uncomfortable with the situation, waving his hand every time Tommy asks if he’s alright. He’s sure that the man would be complaining later about being sore from riding. He just seems like the kind of man to complain about something like that, Tommy muses as he guides them out of the city. He supposes that he really doesn’t know Alfie well enough to make that assumption, and yet, he knows. 

The dirty, cracked streets of Birmingham slowly make way for dirt paths, the blackened brick buildings opening up into the smaller residences that make up the outskirts of the city. The farther they go, the more they can see the wide open sky, a cheery, bright blue that feels slightly unreal— surely, they couldn’t get such beautiful days in Birmingham. It had to be some trick of the light, and Tommy would turn a corner only to find the dirt and the smog again. 

The smog never catches up with them, though, and it only serves to fade further and further from the mind as they finally reach grassy fields. Tommy guides their horses off of the road and down an old, well tread path, leading off to where he knows is a cheery little river hidden by a bunch of trees. He’d used to go there a lot when he was younger, swinging from tree branches with Arthur, stirring rocks into soup with John and Ada. His mum used to bring them, a private little patch of quiet that no one ever disturbed. They hadn’t been there in years, but when he and Alfie finally break into the clearing, it’s exactly how he remembered it. 

“Wow,” Tommy murmurs, dismounting Jupiter, stroking her neck as he surveys the area. “Can’t remember the last time I came here.”

Buttercup has come to a halt beside him, Alfie all but falling off of her in his haste to get out of the saddle. He’s staring around at the clearing, listening to the bright singing of the birds, to the babbling of the water. “This is fucking whimsical, aint it?” 

Tommy turns to him, taking in Alfie’s ruffled appearance. He looks different in the sunshine, his hair appears an entirely different shade of brown, a reddish hue reflecting back. “C’mon.” Tommy says, after a moment where he realized he was just staring. “Lets sit by the water, eh?”

He ties their horses up against a tree, giving more than enough slack that the two girls could graze in the tall grass to their heart's content, then sets off towards their tiny river. There’s a dip off to one side, half hidden behind bushes and low hanging tree branches where they could sit comfortably without sliding in. The ground is firm and dry, the hot sun already sucking up all the moisture from the previous day’s rain. Tommy toes off his shoes, removes his socks and pulls up his pant legs before lowering himself to the water’s edge to dip his feet in. The water is just as cool as he always remembered it being, but knows that in about a half an hour, when the sun is at its hottest, the chill of the river is perfect for swimming in. Maybe he could convince Alfie to swim with him. 

Alfie has followed after him, taking his dear time as he copies Tommy’s actions and removes his own shoes and socks. Tommy greedily memorizes every new inch of skin that Alfie reveals, staring at the wiry hair on his legs out of the corner of his eye, as if he will never see it again. Alfie drops his body heavily on the dirt beside him, hissing slightly with outrage as he feels the temperature of the water. “It’s fucking freezing!” Even so, he does not remove his feet, but slowly lets them sink in, acclimatizing to the temperature. “The things I do for you, Thomas, bloody hell.” 

Tommy hides a smile, looking at anything but Alfie, who is sat very close beside him. “You truly spoil me. Rode a horse and everything.” 

He can feel Alfie nodding beside him, can see his shadow in the water, fragmented and rippling. Tommy’s got his eyes fixed on a bush on the other side of the water that he thinks he can see berries growing on. “Yeah, I did, which I can remember due to the sheer fucking agony my backside finds itself in.” 

Tommy fights a blush, but knows that his ears at least must be a bit pink at that. At least he predicted the whinging. A hasty subject change is in order, his brain wracking back to what had been floating around since that morning. “What do you think would be scarier, then? A horse mixed with a lion, or a horse mixed with a wolf?”

Without hesitation, “a horse mixed with a bear.”

“That wasn’t one of the options. Lion or wolf.”

“Hm, alright.” Tommy really likes the slow rumbling from Alfie’s chest, like a deep growl. There’s a shiver working its way up his spine, one that he can easily pass off as being from the cold water licking at his ankles, or from the gentle brush of wind that washes over them. “A lion, is just a big cat, right, with big old fucking teeth. A horse lion abomination would likely be very careful, more likely to hunt and stalk its prey, right? Like a cat hunts down a canary. But on the other hand, a horse wolf would be downright fucking vicious, I reckon. Hunting in packs, feral, spit foaming off its jaw. Certainly not something you’d like to run into in a dark alley.”

“So, the horse wolf would be scarier?”

Alfie grunts, and Tommy turns now to look at him. As always, Alfie just meets his gaze right back. “Suppose that depends, don’t it? On what you find scarier? Your death creeping up on you in the dark, or rushing on you all at once.”

The world has shrunk down again, shrunk to just that bed of the river. Alfie’s staring at him, seemingly waiting for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked. His eyes are dark, probing, and seem to pin Tommy in place. He couldn’t get up and leave right now even if he tried. He sucks in a shaky breath. “The lion then, I suppose would be scarier. Cats play with their food, don’t they?”

The corner of Alfie’s mouth curls up, and Tommy’s spellbound by the movement. “Aye, that they do. So a quick death for you? Something you don’t see coming?”

It should sound like a threat, but he knows instinctively that it’s not. “Better than waiting around for it, eh?” He tries to make it a joke, tries to smile, but his stomach is doing that thing again. 

“Yes, very true.” Alfie looks away now, nodding at the water as if Tommy’s said something extraordinarily intelligent, and he needs the time to properly absorb it. “But the thing about a quick death, is this.”

In a rapid flurry of movement that Tommy is too distracted to react in time to, Alfie has grabbed hold of Tommy’s shoulders, and is twisting their bodies to flop into the water. Tommy has barely enough time to inhale before he’s plunged into the cold water, twisting and turning to try and free himself from Alfie’s iron grip. He’s unsuccessful, but Alfie is tugging him to his feet again before he really has the time to panic. Back with his head above water, Tommy stands there trembling and sputtering, staring at the other man because he cannot _believe_ he just did that. 

“Are you fucking mad?” Tommy shouts, not so much angry as he is shocked. He shoves at Alfie’s broad chest, clothes sticking wetly onto the muscle and it would be very distracting if he weren’t freezing cold. 

Alfie lets go of Tommy’s arms when he is shoved, leaving the skin where he was gripping feeling somehow colder than the rest of his body. But Alfie, the bastard, is grinning down at him, perfectly pleased with himself. “Yeah, I am. If you haven’t noticed by now, I think that’s more on you, than anything.”

Tommy huffs, wrapping his arms around his own chest, trying to conserve some of the warmth, but he’s getting quickly used to it. The sun is still shining overhead, and he was right, earlier, when he thought about the water feeling nice in the sun. He could do without the wet clothes, though. Just to be contrary, he kicks a splash of water at the other man. “You’re a bloody bastard, is what you are.”

They’re distracted then, by a full splash fight, both seemingly trying their very hardest to drown the other. They sound like school boys, giggling as they dunk the other’s head under, clothes slapping wetly against skin as they toss and are tossed around in the water. Alfie is larger and stronger, but Tommy is faster. Tommy finds himself perched on Alfie’s back, arms around his neck as he tries in vain to push him down. 

“Say you give up,” Tommy pants, letting a breathless laugh escape as he struggles to force Alfie downwards. “Say I win.”

“Never, Shelby.” With a devilish smile, Alfie flops backwards into the water, Tommy laughing madly as he lets himself fall, the man’s warm body on top of him. The water is cool, and his heart is pounding wildly in his ribcage, and he feels lighter than he has in forever.

*

They eventually pull themselves out of the water, the fight gradually draining out of them and leaving them breathless and satisfied. Tommy’s stomach is grumbling, and he decides that now is as good a time as any for them to eat their lunch. While he trudges over to the horses, Alfie plops himself down on a shaded patch of grass, peeling his waterlogged shirt up over his head and hanging it on a low branch in the sun. Tommy can feel his breath catch in his chest when he turns around and sees the shirtless man, fully reclining in the grass now. He walks back over, the bag with their lunch in hand, a great deal more hesitant than he had been before. He feels as if he has intruded somehow, as if he had simply walked into this clearing a moment ago and was interrupting Alfie’s lounging.

The man is so solid, a thick wall of muscle, still covered in delicate droplets of water, streaming down his torso by gravity. Alfie’s eyes are closed, an imitation of a nap, though Tommy knows he hasn’t actually fallen asleep. It gives him the opportunity to stare openly, though, which is maybe what Alfie had intended to begin with.

“Hung my shirt up to dry,” Alfie grunts, though Tommy can obviously tell. One eye winks open, catches Tommy looking. “You should do the same. I promise not to leer.”

Tommy makes a soft, amused sound in the back of his throat, considering. In the meanwhile, Alfie sits up, gesturing for Tommy to hand him the bag, which he does without thinking. He probably should take his shirt off. It’ll be bad enough riding back to town in wet trousers, should at least let the shirt dry off a bit. Alfie examines the bag and it’s contents carefully, fully ignoring Tommy’s indecision as he stands beside him. After a moment, when Alfie has already pulled the slightly squashed sandwiches from their paper wrapping, Tommy makes up his mind. His fingers feel a bit unsteady as he guides them to his buttons, having a bit more trouble than he might usually as he removes the shirt. Pulling it over his head, he keeps checking to see if Alfie is looking, but he never is, is pointedly staring at his sandwich. Tommy hangs the shirt up beside Alfie’s, letting it flutter in the breeze. 

They eat their lunch in relative silence, both seemingly content to just listen to the sounds of nature. Tommy’s not used to this, hasn’t been for years, but his mother used to take them out quite often. It was in their blood, she had told him, that they couldn’t stay within the confines of a city for too long or they’d go mad. They had all kind of forgotten that as the years went on, as things got worse and worse at home, but Tommy remembered it now. There was a sense of calm that you can only feel while sitting in the grass. 

Tommy had brought them a container of water for the ride, but also a flask of whiskey that he’d stashed in the bottom of their lunch bag. Alfie finds it just as they finish eating, making a pleased noise when he unscrews the cap and takes a whiff. They pass the flask back and forth for a few minutes more, Alfie still being uncharacteristically quiet. Tommy lays down on his back, staring up at the fluffy white clouds drifting overhead. His head is pleasantly fuzzy, from the alcohol and from his general satisfaction with how the day has turned out so far. He points at one of the clouds. “That look like a crucifix to you?” 

Alfie cranes his head up immediately, squinting up at the sky. “Nah. Looks more like a rifle. Big fuckin’ shotgun, maybe.” Tommy just rolls his eyes. Of course he’d think it looks like a gun. “Mind if I join you over there? Look quite comfortable.” 

Tommy doesn’t reply so much with words, but with just a vague gesture, a half shrug of his shoulders, as if he couldn’t care less. In reality, he wants to open his arms, invite Alfie in, maybe let him rest his head on his bicep. He’s got that weird, vibrating feeling coursing through him again, feels like a horse stood waiting for the race to begin. 

Alfie settles in at his side, still keeping a respectable distance between the two of them. Tommy keeps staring at the clouds, before he lets his eyes fall closed, just letting himself drift away in the moment. It really is a lovely day. It feels as if they’ve discovered a secret garden, somewhere that only they know the location, somewhere that they can stay hidden away until the night closes in on them. But night seems so far away; it’s just him, Alfie, and the nervous beating of his heart.

Tommy sighs, softly. He almost hopes that he doesn't hear. “I love this.” 

The sun is almost blinding, so it’s safe for Tommy to keep his eyes closed as he hears Alfie return with an answering sigh. “What?”

He considers his reply carefully. “Everything.”

He hears a faint laugh. “Us, you mean?”

Tommy’s heart is in his throat. Alfie is never afraid to push a little farther. “It’s not bad.” He smiles on the words, sweetening them with the curve of his lips. He still can’t open his eyes.

Alfie doesn’t reply. There’s a quiet rustling in the grass, Alfie announcing his movements like he had the night before with his sweater. Tommy stays completely still, very focused on keeping his breath even. He can tell without even opening his eyes that Alfie is looking at him, that his eyes are roaming over his half-clothed body. Tommy still can’t quite figure out how he feels about that, or how he feels about anything that has gone on since Alfie had arrived. All he knows is that he wants to stay there in the tall grass, beside him, and that the feeling of Alfie’s eyes on him is…good. Feels like a physical sensation, as if Alfie were touching him with tender hands. It makes him feel a bit insane, a bit like he’s hurtling towards something that he cannot yet identify at breakneck speeds. 

There’s another slight shift, and then, there is a very real hand on him, touching the delicate skin of his lips. Tommy’s breath stops in his chest, and his lips fall open of their own volition. Alfie makes another sound at that, a pleased puff of air escaping from his nostrils, and the finger begins tracing Tommy’s lips, stroking the bottom and following it around to the top. Tommy’s eyes flutter open in the same breath as he peeks out his tongue, mind gone completely blank in the sudden blast of tension that puts his body in a chokehold. All he can feel is Alfie’s fingers on his mouth, crawling their way down to his chin to tilt it up towards his face. Now that his eyes are open and he has no where else to look, he’s looking at Alfie, who is staring down at him with an expression that Tommy’s never seen before, like he wants to _consume_ him, and all Tommy knows is that he needs to be closer, needs to feel his breath on his skin again. His lips tingle where Alfie’s fingers have drawn their path, and he needs to know if Alfie’s touch would feel that way everywhere.

He pushes himself up on his elbow, so that his face is level with the other man’s, who is still halfway lounging, the skin at his hip twisting prettily to meet him. 

They’re about to kiss, Tommy realizes a half second before Alfie’s taking a delicate hold of his chin once again, but then Alfie doesn’t do it, not properly or like he’s ever been kissed before, at least. Tommy feels his bottom lip being grazed against, nipping just enough that Tommy can feel it, but then he’s dropping his hand and pulling away. Doesn’t pull far, but just enough that their lips won’t touch by accident. It feels somewhat shy, in a way that he’d never expected Alfie to be, almost achingly sweet. He’s letting Tommy react, he’s taking a moment to let him breathe, but it’s ultimately unnecessary. Tommy can’t breathe, can’t think beyond the dull agony of Alfie taking away his touch so soon, the only thought in his mind is the desire to have him back. He wants to touch, to taste, with a kind of mindless certainty that steamrolls right through any possible objection he might have had earlier. So what if Alfie was a man? So what if the brushing of his lips brought with it the unfamiliar feeling of whiskery cheeks against his? He needed to taste him. 

With the confidence afforded to him by virtue of his utter brainlessness, Tommy extends his tongue, licking, trying to make his urgency apparent and his next action less alarming. He’s the one to seal their lips, he’s the one to press forward for the kiss he’s craving, and their lips work in smooth tandem as Alfie seems to automatically respond to him. It’s again, a lot sweeter than he’d expected Alfie to be, but Tommy’s willing to throw all of his preconceived notions about the man out the window, as long as he gets to keep kissing him. It’s as if he could feel himself slowly melting under Alfie’s lips, warmth spreading from the tips of his fingers down to his curling toes. The feeling of the beard is foreign, isn’t something he’s used to, but it’s not bad. He doesn’t hate it, a slightly scratchy reminder of who he’s kissing, and how he shouldn’t be kissing him. Tommy thinks he’d really like to rub his face against it, just to see what it would feel like.

Just as he’s starting to really sink into it, Alfie, to Tommy’s abject horror, pulls away again with a deep sigh rumbling through his chest. He turns his face away, Tommy’s face falling into the man’s neck as he goes. “Hm, right.” He shifts again, so that Tommy has no choice but to fall back onto the ground, holding himself up by his elbows as he fights to regain his breath. “Apologies, mate, didn’t mean to… well, right.”

 _Apologies?_ Tommy stares at the tall grass below his face, brain still working at a frustratingly slow pace. What was he apologizing for? Wasn’t Tommy the one who had kissed him? Tommy can’t think about anything other than how Alfie’s lips had felt on his, about how warm and solid he’d been under him, how it had felt weird and different and _good_ all the way down to his bones. And right, if Alfie was apologizing because he thought Tommy might be having second thoughts, that was rubbish, made absolutely no sense at all, and Tommy was not having it. He pushed himself off of his elbows, launching himself once more at the man, kissing him with an urgency he hadn’t known himself capable of. He wants to chase the ghosts of uncertainty from Alfie’s mind, wants to kiss away the doubt that Tommy hadn’t wanted it too. Because Tommy still can’t bloody think, right, but he knows that he wants this. 

Just as before, Alfie responds beautifully, curling a hand to hold the side of Tommy’s jaw, breathing in sharply as Tommy settles in above him. Tommy is feeling the strange urge to cry, to choke out a sob as Alfie opens his mouth and their tongues meet for the first time. He’s very aware of Alfie’s body, of his broad shoulders, his wide chest, of the other hand that is creeping up his side. Alfie’s hand is roaming his naked torso, fingers digging in sharply as he goes, resting at the base of his spine and he tugs Tommy in closer. Tommy lets him, lets himself sink in so they’re pressed chest to chest, the mixed sensations of Alfie’s tongue exploring his mouth, and his hand, now on his waist, heady and very nearly overwhelming. It feels strange, the contact of their skin against each other. There was very little softness to Alfie’s body, besides the fuzz of the hair on his chest, no gentle curve to his hip, no soft breasts to press between them. Tommy hesitantly lays his own hand on Alfie’s shoulder, squeezing experimentally, just to feel the difference. 

Alfie breaks away at the movement, eyes dark with want. He looks as if he’s about to say something, but then changes his mind, tugging on Tommy again. Tommy goes with him eagerly, swinging his leg over the man’s thighs so he’s straddling him. He’s never done anything like this, he thinks to himself, he’s never sat on someone’s lap. Tommy makes a quiet noise at the thought, nothing but a breathy inhalation of air, cutting himself off when he’s introduced to a whole new sensation: the press of a hardening cock beneath him. 

It stops him all at once, mouth falling open in surprise as he tears his eyes off Alfie’s flushed face, staring down between their two bodies. He’d be lying if he said that his own member wasn’t responding to the kissing, but there’s something about feeling Alfie that makes him shy, makes him a bit afraid. He’d been enthusiastic, he’d been quite brave, but he’s quite sure that this is as far as he’d like to go. 

Alfie clears his throat, and his hands are moving again, resting on the front of Tommy’s thighs. “Well. That was certainly something, eh?” Tommy looks back up at him, blinking rapidly. Alfie’s jaw looks tight, as if he’s recognized Tommy’s reluctance, and is making a conscious effort to collect himself, to calm himself down. Tommy feels relief flood through his body. 

“I,” Tommy chokes out, a chuckle bubbling up from his chest, unexpectedly. He’s suddenly feeling giddy, his relief and his desire twisting through his veins, an odd combination. He’s smiling, eyes locked on the man before him. “I, sorry. That was quite nice.” He can’t properly articulate the thoughts that have come rushing back in, can’t express the cornucopia of conflicting emotions that have come washing over him. He’s sure that somewhere in the back of his head is a growing sense of panic, of dread, but it seems so small right now. He wants Alfie to know that he liked it. Wants Alfie to know that he’d like to do it again, exactly what they were doing, but that anything more than the kissing was a bit too much for him. 

Alfie just laughs a bit, and the look in his eyes has shifted, a warmth burning through them, something that Tommy might classify as adoring if he thought about it. “No need to apologize, treacle, no need. Though I do have to disagree with you there, right, because I do not think that ‘nice’ quite encapsulates what just happened.”

Tommy tilts his head, feeling himself melt. He’s still fucking grinning, probably looks a proper fool. He drops his hands, placing them on top of Alfie’s, still on his thighs. The world is slowly coming back to him, the sunshine surrounding them in their pretty little patch of paradise. “How would you describe it, then?”

“Hm,” Alfie flips his hands, slowly stroking his fingers over Tommy’s open palms, all the way down to his wrists. He’s wearing rings, slightly cold against the sensitive skin of Tommy’s inner arms. “Sounds as if someone’s fishing for compliments. Would you like me to retrieve my thesaurus for you, Thomas Shelby? I could write a poem to your ethereal beauty, but I don’t think they’ve got the proper adjectives, mate, to describe how fuckin’ pretty you are when you’re climbing into my lap.”

“Shut up.” Tommy blushes, ducking his head down to hide his face into Alfie’s neck. The older man leans his head sideways, allowing him full access to the wide expanse of skin there. It occurs to Tommy what a vulnerable move that is, to fully bare your throat to someone, to allow someone where your skin is so thin. He can’t help pressing a soft kiss to the crook of his neck, can feel Alfie’s resulting shiver. “I liked kissing you.”

Alfie replies with a sigh. “Right, well, never had any complaints, have I? But listen, Tommy lad, could you do me a solid favour? Could you go on and climb on off of me now? For I am trying to be on my best behaviour and I’m afraid your sweet lips are making it very difficult to stop myself from flipping you over onto the grass right there and fucking ravaging you.” 

If Tommy hadn’t been blushing before, he certainly was now. He complies with Alfie’s request, rising unsteadily to his feet, rather reluctant to separate himself from the man’s heat. What exactly would a ‘ravaging’ entail, he wonders to himself as he wipes dirt and grass off of the knees of his trousers. He thinks he’d be willing to let Alfie show him, but perhaps some other time; maybe when he didn’t feel like his legs were about to give out on him. “Should we go?” He jerks his head towards the horses. Their shirts should be mostly dry by now. 

“Yeah, just.” Alfie’s still sat in the grass, but he’s drawn his knees up in front of him. “Just give me a minute, alright?”

*

The ride home seems to go faster than it had that morning. It’s still the afternoon, and they’re in no rush, but there’s a mutual sense of urgency that drives them to hurry. It feels like they’re fleeing. Tommy’s quiet, even more so than he had been before, and he barely checks behind him to make sure Alfie’s still following. The further and further away they get from the little clearing, the more the reality of the situation sets in for him. He’d just kissed Alfie. _He_ had kissed Alfie, who was most definitely a man. Tommy didn’t kiss men, Tommy wasn’t attracted to men, Tommy wasn’t a queer. But his body had certainly responded to him, his blood had been singing in his veins and rushing down to certain parts of his anatomy that should not have been a part of things. 

And there was the matter of Alfie’s cock, pushing between his thighs. He’d felt it, and he’d gotten scared, and things had stopped, but Tommy can’t help but think about what would have happened had it not stopped. Had he not hesitated, what would they have done in the tall grass? What would he have allowed to be done to him? Tommy didn’t know how it worked with two men, but he’d probably be the passive party between the two of them, right? He’d probably be the one to lay down on the hard ground, and…? What, exactly? 

The abstract concept of Alfie’s cock and what the man would do with it followed him all the way home. But once they’re back at the stables, there’s a big, gaping wall of silence that presses between them, neither of them really certain what to say to the other. Tommy can tell that the other man is nervous, can tell by the way he keeps glancing over his shoulders as if they’re being watched, and by the way he spins his rings around his fingers as he waits at the door to the stables. 

“I uh,” Tommy says, fidgeting with his hands just as much as the other man. “I should take care of the horses. Make sure they’re well-fed.”

Alfie nods, and for one of the first times that Tommy can remember, he does not make eye contact with him. “Right, sounds good. I’ve got some matters that need tending to, should go.” 

“Right.”

“Right.”

The two men stand there motionless for a moment, before Alfie departs all at once, as if he cannot get out of there fast enough. Tommy didn’t mean for it to sour so quickly, didn’t mean for things to get so uncomfortable, and he doubts that Alfie had meant the same. But they were back within the dirty confines of Birmingham, and that feeling of panic and dread that Tommy had been feeling earlier is overpowering. He’d always known Alfie’s desire for him, he’d always known his intentions, and yet he allowed himself to be swept away by it. Hell, he’d initiated it. Why had he done that?

Tommy slinks out of the stables, because his hands are shaking and he really, really needs a cigarette. He leans against the wall of the stable, sinking down it until he’s fully seated in the dirt. He lights his cigarette, taking a brief moment to be glad that he’d stashed them in his bag on the horse, and they hadn’t been made victim to Alfie’s horseplay in the water. He pulls too deeply on his first drag, making himself cough and gag before controlling himself. 

Why had he done it? Why had he invited Alfie out at all? His answer, this morning, had simply been that he wanted to spend more time with the man, had thought he wanted to spend time with Alfie as a friend. But where had that desire even come from? When had Alfie’s presence in his life become something that he would actively seek out? And the kissing, _god,_ the kissing had been so good, had been everything one could ever hope for in a kiss. It had made his knees go weak and his body ache for more. His mind had gone completely blank with Alfie’s lips on his, and he’d desperately wanted more. The only reason they’d stopped was because of the very real possibility that they had been about to do something he could never come back from. Not because Tommy objected to the kissing, not because Tommy hadn’t wanted to kiss a man. 

Huh. He had wanted to kiss a man, wanted to kiss Alfie. So he had an innate desire to spend time with the man, and he had wanted to kiss him. It could only lead to one logical conclusion, but that conclusion was hard for him to even think about in his head. There was really no other explanation for it. Could he be a queer? The label was terrifying, looming like a towering giant in his head. Tommy Shelby, a man who climbs into the laps of other men. His father would fucking kill him. 

He stays at Charlie’s yard for the remainder of the afternoon, slowly alternating between actually caring for the horses, and working his way through his cigarettes until he’s collected a pile of spent buts. Thankfully, he is not disturbed as he broods, is left to his heavy thoughts as the sun begins its slow descent past the horizon. He should go, his brain reminds him. With how obviously distracted he is, it’s not a good idea to be roaming the streets of Birmingham by himself. Greta was probably waiting for him—

Greta. _Fuck._ He’d told her the day before that he’d meet her after he was finished work, which should have been a few hours earlier. He freezes in his tracks as he thinks about Greta, thinks about her waiting diligently for him as he’s off roaming the countryside, kissing men. They’ve never explicitly confirmed their being a couple, but it was reasonably well-known among the residents of Small Heath that they were sweethearts. He wonders if he should go and see her now, the cold of night be damned, but he stops himself from moving. She didn’t deserve that, didn’t deserve to be considered dimly through his swirling cloud of confusion. She’d think he came for sex, and she’d probably allow him between her legs, a hand clamped over her pretty mouth so that her parents wouldn’t hear. She didn’t deserve that. He tries to ignore how cowardly he feels.

It begs the question of where to go next. The Garrison? No, his brothers or father would likely make an appearance there, and he wasn’t in the mood for familial affection when his lips were still tingling from a man’s touch. There are other pubs, slightly outside Peaky territory that won’t bother him too much; maybe they’ll give him a sideways glance if they recognize him, but they should let him linger in the shadows and drink in silence. He makes up his mind, he’ll go to one of those pubs. He just needs to start walking in a direction, any direction, but he’s still frozen in place. He’s nervous about getting drunk, nervous about making his way back home after a few drinks too many, about what he might do with lowered inhibitions and a man he wants to kiss sleeping in the room next to him. He shouldn’t get drunk. He should just go home, and face what he’s afraid of.

He begins walking, still not completely sure where he’s going. He’s wearing the hat without the razor blades in it, and he pulls it down as far as he can to try and hide his face. The further he gets from Charlie’s yard, the more and more people he finds walking the streets. A few prostitutes call out to him as he makes his way through the busiest part of the area, lilting voices promising a good time. He ignores them, ignores them all, just focuses on the movement of his legs, on the pumping of his heart in his chest, and before he knows it, he’s at home. 

When he enters, he finds Alfie inside, sitting at the kitchen table with Polly. They’re in the middle of some deep conversation, Alfie gesturing wildly with his hands until he notices Tommy lurking in the dark hallway and he stops mid-sentence. Polly sits there, face carefully blank as her eyes flicker sharply between the two men. Tommy steps forward even though he feels unsteady on his feet, because he can’t stand there gawking at the two of them, brain working fast enough to know that, at least. 

“Evening,” Tommy clears his throat, mouth feeling entirely too dry. His body feels like a spring, coiled tight, but he’s holding himself together better than Alfie at least, who is still holding his hands in the air. He sniffs the air, noticing an unfamiliar scent for the first time. “What’s that smell?”

“Alfie baked bread.” Polly pulls out her cigarette case, appearing out of nowhere. She pulls out two, offering the second to Tommy who takes it with a grateful nod. “Sourdough, I believe.”

“You baked bread?” Tommy furrows his eyebrows, pulling out his book of matches and lighting Polly’s, then his own cigarette. He keeps his eyes on Polly, then on everything else in the room except Alfie.

Alfie clears his throat, and his voice comes out remarkably clear. Tommy half-expected to hear his voice break. “I’m a man of many talents, Thomas.”

Tommy still doesn’t look at him. “Many talents indeed.” He walks around the table towards the proper kitchen, aware of the two sets of eyes that follow him as he goes. On the centre of the counter sits a round loaf of bread, scent wafting off of it in warm waves. He must have just taken it out of the oven. Perhaps Polly had been helping him, he thinks as he takes another drag of his cigarette. He can’t imagine Alfie baking. But then again, he couldn’t imagine Alfie owning that knit cardigan, he couldn’t imagine Alfie’s lips being as gentle and sweet as they had been, couldn’t imagine the feel of his hard cock between his legs, so he just added this to the list of curiosities he’d recently discovered. 

“Have to let it sit awhile longer.” It’s Alfie, of course, but his voice comes from just over Tommy’s shoulder. He hadn’t even heard him stand. Hadn’t he thrown his chair back noisily the night before? Hadn’t the chair screeched across the floor? Tommy turns his head, and Alfie’s standing just there, back towards Polly but Tommy can see her staring at them. She raises her eyebrows, a look that Tommy cannot decipher crossing over her face. She’s looking at him like she’s warning him, and Tommy can feel himself flushing. She must know, she must be able to see whatever it is blooming between them.

“Right,” Tommy chokes out, turning away from both of them. Alfie’s hovering behind him, and his presence weighs heavy on Tommy, overpowering. He lurches towards the icebox, grabbing something at random, some unidentifiable hunk of meat and a crust of old bread from the counter. It seems a poor meal, especially with the fresh bread scent permeating through the air, but Tommy needs to escape. He sidesteps around Alfie, who is still looking at him, waiting for some signal that Tommy’s not prepared to give, walks around the table, walks towards the stairs. He ignores Polly calling after him about rats, (they’re not supposed to eat anywhere but the kitchen), but he’s already halfway up the stairs and he cannot _breathe_ , running from the feeling of their eyes, Polly’s piercing and Alfie’s almost pleading.

He sits at his window, and he eats his bread and meat (it’s pork, he quickly figures out. Wonders who the fuck made pork in a house with a guest who cannot eat it). He’s out of cigarettes, having smoked them all at Charlie’s yard, evident by the tightness of his lungs and the slight scratching at the back of his throat. He just sits at the window and listens to the night pass by. He listens as his family begins returning from wherever they’d been all day, listens to the footsteps of Alfie and John retiring to their respective rooms, no steps lingering at his door. Only when he’s completely certain that everyone is in their beds for the night does Tommy stand up from the window and crawl into his own. It feels like days have passed since he woke up that morning, and it feels like an eternity before he’s dragged into blissful unconsciousness. 

*

That night, he dreams about Alfie. He knows it’s a dream, because Tommy always knows when he’s dreaming, is always able to differentiate between what is real and what is fake. So when he opens his eyes and he’s back in their little clearing, he knows it’s not real, even though it feels as if it is. He can feel the soft breeze in his hair, the prickly grass grazing his bare skin, the sun on his face. It’s almost identical to the situation he had found himself in earlier that day, with one notable exception: he was wearing no clothes at all.

His nakedness does not really occur to him as odd. This is a dream, afterall, and he has no need for modesty. Alfie is laying at his side, and his chest is bare, but he’s wearing the same trousers he’d been wearing in reality. Alfie’s eyes are closed, and Tommy wonders if he’s dreaming too, if they’ve somehow come together in their dreams. Tommy’s mother used to tell him about dream sharing, an old tale passed on by her mother before her. He’s not sure if it’s a Romani thing, thinks it might just be something mothers tell their children to soothe their anxieties. If they ever had a nightmare so bad, she’d be there to pluck them from the clutches of monsters, because mothers had that power. He hadn’t thought about it since he was a child, but Alfie looks so solid and real beside him, he’s half-convinced it’s true. 

Well, if Tommy’s dreaming, he might as well take advantage of that fact. He rolls onto his side, shifting towards the dream man beside him. He allows himself a moment to stare, to let his eyes roam Alfie’s body, a reverse of what had happened in real life. The hair on Alfie’s broad chest trails downward, Tommy following its journey as it hides within his trousers. He’s not an overly muscled man, but you can still see the definition on his upper body, can see the faint hint of a V on his hips, and Tommy wants to touch, so he does. Alfie’s eyes remain closed as Tommy’s hands slide over the man’s hips, over the firm skin beneath his bellybutton. He strokes through the short hairs there, remarkably soft under his fingertips. Then, without hesitation, Tommy slips his hand under Alfie’s trousers.

Alfie’s eyes open, and just like in real life, they pin Tommy to the spot, but the man says nothing, just lets Tommy fumble clumsily. It’s hot under his trousers, and this part can only be from Tommy’s imagination, from his own experiences touching himself. He knows, objectively, that Jewish men have their foreskin cut off, but he’s never seen something like that, doesn’t quite know how to imagine it, and so Tommy stops thinking about it, just feels the rest of him as he wraps his fingers around his hard cock. He thinks he’s doing alright, because dream Alfie grunts appreciatively as he tightens his grip, the skin of his cock silky and delicate. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” Slips from Tommy’s lips, unsure where the words come from, only that they must come from somewhere deep inside of him, hidden to even himself. He’s still just laying there, still just holding Alfie in his hand, not moving. Alfie’s eyes are on him, and he nods, and he’s looking at Tommy like he’d been looking at him in the kitchen, with something a touch too open, too pleading. 

“I told you, I want to fucking ravage you,” Alfie’s saying, and he’s moving forward in that way people do in dreams, where one second they’re laying back, and then the next they’re right in front of you. Tommy’s hand is no longer on Alfie’s cock, his hands are circling Alfie’s shoulders, clasped behind his neck, because Alfie’s on top of him now, pressing him down into the hard earth. He’s never been held down like this, unsure if he’d be able to wriggle free if he were even slightly inclined to. All he knows is that Alfie is heavy on top of him, heat bleeding down from his naked torso, and they’re both rock hard. Alfie rolls his hips, and Tommy notices that he’s naked now too, their cocks sliding against each other, slick as if they’ve just pulled themselves out of the river. There’s pressure building somewhere from inside of Tommy, the usual feeling of arousal, mixed with something that he can’t identify, just knows that it’s _deeper_. He knows very little about how sex between two men works, but he knows that it involves a cock in the ass. Is that what the feeling is? Tommy wanting Alfie to be inside of him?

In his dream, it doesn’t hurt when Alfie presses inside of him. In his dream, it doesn’t feel much like anything at all, just a tight building of pressure. He feels full of the man, a mix of neither pain nor pleasure, but he wants it, wants to draw Alfie in closer, inside of his body deeper, even when he’s bottoming out. Alfie sits up, still inside, pressing his thumbs into the backs of his knees as he pushes them further apart. He’s above him, sweaty and flushed, and he looks fucking gorgeous, the sun gleaming in his hair, and Tommy can’t help but think about the old tales, of Greek gods from dusty books Polly’d given him. Who had been the sun god? Fair Apollo? Or perhaps Zeus would be a better fit, broad shoulders and wild beard with a carnal appetite for mere mortals like Tommy. 

Alfie’s moving faster now, thrusting in harder and harder, Tommy can feel it throughout his entire body, his teeth fucking clatter with the force of it. “F-fuck,” he stutters out, arms sprawled out loosely around him, just allowing his body to be plundered. “Tell me, Alfie, tell me what to do.” He asks, because this is a dream, and he has no need for embarrassment. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to move, doesn’t know where to place his hands to make this better. He shouldn’t just be lying there, though, right? 

Alfie growls, that deep rumbling that Tommy fucking loves, and this time he can _feel_ it. Alfie leans forward, scooping Tommy up in his arms, rearranging their bodies and falling backwards, so that Tommy is straddling his thighs, cock still buried deep inside him. “C’mon, treacle. ‘S like riding a horse.” Their faces are inches away, and Tommy surges forward, capturing Alfie’s lips with a feral energy he didn’t know he possessed, all teeth and tongue. Alfie’s hands are on his hips, squeezing tight, and he gently guides Tommy up, then back down again, so that Tommy’s impaling himself on the man’s cock. 

Tommy nods, more to himself than Alfie, and he takes the cue and begins riding him in earnest. It’s a dream, it’s just a dream, but he’s suddenly desperate to do this well, to please Alfie. His own cock is throbbing, hard as a fucking diamond, and he almost sobs when Alfie, reading his mind, wraps his own hand around it. “Please,” Tommy rasps out, his mind going completely numb, thighs trembling from the exertion of driving himself up and down on the cock inside of him. Alfie’s hand is tight and wet with some kind of slick, and this time Tommy does release an awful, keening moan as he begins jerking him. “Please, Alfie, don’t fucking stop. Don’t fucking—”

*

Tommy wakes up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO couldn't stop myself from ending the chapter there. thank you for getting through this massive wall of text!!!! i know tommy was a bit all over the place, but i couldn't stop thinking about how confusing it must have been, how lonely it would've been to be any sort of lgbtq+ in 1900s england. just didn't think he'd be like "oh word i like dudes? well ok"
> 
> more ASAP!!!


	2. saying it out loud is hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch. 2 babey!

When Tommy wakes up for good the next morning, he does so with his mind more or less made up. He’d woken up earlier in the night, having made an embarrassing mess of himself that he’d needed to clean up before he could fall back asleep. Polly had always taught them to pay attention to their dreams, that they showed them things that they might not want to face in real life. Tommy didn’t even need to ask Polly to translate what this one might mean; he thinks that the meaning behind it was perfectly obvious, thank you very much.

Tommy prided himself on being a fairly logical thinker, and it was because of that that made it so difficult for him to come to terms with the whole situation. Logically thinking, this whole thing was a mess; his life would be much easier if he were not involved with another man. But the fact of the matter was that Tommy was desperately attracted to Alfie, on both an emotional and (more pressingly) _physical_ level. Tommy couldn’t help that fact. He likes him, alright, he wants to kiss him, wants to press his hands beneath his trousers, and so on. All those earlier symptoms, the heart palpitations, the strangeness in his stomach, they were all classic signs of romance, something that he’d have known if he spent more time reading those awful novels that Polly sometimes leaves lying around the house. It’s an actual relief to know for certain, the confusion dimming into a faint sheepishness at not being able to figure it out sooner. 

And so, he wakes up with his mind made up. He’s going to pursue this for as far as it will take him, is going to give into his curiosity, give into his base instincts, and he’s going to do it regardless of the fact that everyone would hate him if they found out. He’d be quiet, of course, he’s not an idiot, but he can’t go on as if nothing had ever happened, not knowing what he did now. 

He has no plan, no potential course of action here, he thinks to himself as he gets dressed, and he has the good sense to be slightly mortified by how he had quite literally fled from Alfie the night before. The day previous had been a lot, half dream, half nightmare, and he had no clue how to rectify his actions. Would seeing Alfie again be awkward? And he’d have to speak with Polly at some point and try and suss out what she suspected, and to bum a pack of cigarettes off her. He didn’t know how he felt about Polly knowing, in the cold light of day, but he’s reasonably certain that she won’t do or say anything that might put him in any physical danger. She won’t tell Arthur Sr, and she won’t tell anyone else. She might warn him off, which he’d guessed from the look on her face when she watched them, but she’d never put him in harm’s way. He could probably talk her out of worrying too much, might be able to convince her that nothing was going on at all, depending on what she knew. 

And of course, he’d have to talk to Alfie. That one he has significantly less of clue of what to do. He’s sure that if he keeps dragging his feet about all this that Alfie is going to eventually lose interest completely, leaving this whole crisis of Tommy’s a bit of a moot point. But as he finished with the buttons on his shirt, he finds himself already in motion, already drifting closer to the door so that he can find the man. It’s involuntary, his footsteps, something in him just automatically driving him closer and closer to where the man will be sleeping. He has no idea what to say, but he wants to see him regardless. Finds that the longer he stays away, the more and more aching a feeling in his ribcage. 

Without any further ado, Tommy strides out of his room and towards Alfie’s. He knocks politely on the door, tapping his foot impatiently as he waits for the man to begin stirring. Tommy had slept in again, could tell by the door to John’s room being thrown wide open, emptied of the lad. They’d be out of school for the break soon, and then they’d have to deal with them being constantly around all summer. With Ada, it wasn’t too much of a problem; she had her friends and never spent too much time in the house during the break, but he knew John would be lurking around the house trying to get into Peaky business. And as he got older, it got harder for Tommy and Polly to convince the Arthur’s to keep the boy out of it. 

There’s no sound coming from within Alfie’s room. Tommy knocks again, a bit harder this time, to no avail. Alfie must already be up and gone, Tommy muses, or else he’s completely ignoring him. He feels a brief surge of panic through his chest. Was Alfie done with him already? It’d been only a few hours, he can’t have possibly decided to move on. Alfie must have just woken up early.

Despite his own thoughts comforting him, Tommy finds himself descending the staircase a great deal faster than he might usually. His heart is beating rapidly as he listens for any sounds that will reveal Alfie’s location to him, that might reassure Tommy that he hasn’t missed his chance right after he’s decided he wants one. He can hear Finn cooing from somewhere in the house, probably in his room with the nanny, but that’s not what he’s looking for. Then, when he gets to the ground floor, he picks up the sound of the low grumble of conversation, of men speaking with each other. It’s coming from the dining room, and Tommy’s entering before he’s really got a chance to listen for who is actually speaking. 

It’s his dad, Arthur, Scudboat and Alfie, all huddled around the table, peering at a piece of paper laid across it. All four men look up suspiciously at Tommy’s quick arrival, but when they recognize that it’s just him, they go back to what they were doing. Or, the Arthur’s and Scudboat do, at least. Alfie is looking up at him as if he hadn’t expected to ever see him again. 

“Morning, Tommy.” His brother grunts out in greeting, still looking down at whatever it is they’re looking at. Scudboat and Arthur Sr are looking rather serious, but his brother looks significantly less so. “You’re up late.”

“Yeah,” Tommy replies, finding any other words almost impossible to say. Alfie’s still watching him, but his face has smoothed out, looking less affected by Tommy’s appearance. Tommy doesn’t like that, doesn’t like Alfie schooling his expression down, so he smiles gently at him, twisting his fingers together nervously. Alfie glances at the men around him, and upon seeing that they still aren’t paying attention, smiles back. He looks relieved— as if he didn’t know what to expect from Tommy, couldn’t predict his reception. Tommy supposes he understands; if Tommy had decided he wanted this whole thing to be over with, he could very easily tell Arthur Sr., and that’d be that. The thought is ludicrous, and Tommy tries to communicate that, as well as his intentions, his desire, as much as he can in front of his family. Alfie’s answering smile makes Tommy’s heart jump to his throat, makes his knees feel a bit weak, and they just stand there for a minute, smiling at each other, before Alfie clears his throat. 

“We’re just going over some papers, here,” Alfie says, gesturing unnecessarily to the paper in front of him. His voice, while still deep and growling like Tommy’s so grown to adore, sounds softer than usual. “Almost finished.”

Tommy nods, bites the flesh on the inside of his cheek. “Right,” he looks to the other men now, looks to see if they’ve noticed anything off, but they’re thoroughly engrossed in whatever illegal venture they’re probably planning. “I’m uh, I’m off to Charlie’s yard. The stables.” He adds the extra detail and he shoots a significant look at the bearded man, hopeful that he catches the hint. 

Arthur Sr looks up at him then, a frown on his face. “You tell Charlie I need a word with him. Get him over here right away.” 

Tommy nods, but with his father’s eyes on him he doesn’t dare look back at Alfie. “I’ll tell him.” He turns on his heels, exiting the room and then the Shelby house at large. It almost pains him to leave, to put more distance between himself and Alfie instead of less, and he hopes that the man would soon join him. The stables could be quite private, especially seeing as Charlie would be leaving soon. He quickens his pace, heart still thumping wildly as he goes.

*

Not even a half hour later, Tommy hears the gate to Charlie’s yard screech open. He pauses, in the middle of doing nothing but waiting around nervously, listening for whoever has just arrived.

“Thomas? You ‘round?”

It’s Alfie, Tommy grins, pushing himself into action, half running towards the source of the voice. He turns a corner and finds himself face to face with the man, looking a lot more relaxed than he had been while standing next to his father. 

“Ah, there he is. And what a lovely sight he is.” Alfie closes the distance that Tommy had left between them, encouraged by the smile that Tommy couldn’t wipe off his face if she tried. Alfie pulls him in, his hands on his waist, and Tommy melts into his embrace. It’s an intoxicating feeling, being in Alfie’s arms, Tommy feeling himself being immediately swept up in it, his earlier worries instantly disappearing. Of course this wouldn’t be weird, or awkward, it’s Alfie, isn’t it? He likes Alfie. They’re hugging, theoretically an innocent enough gesture if anyone happened to be watching, but the way Alfie’s hands roam his body is anything but. He’s certainly not being shy about it, large hands tracing down his spine, thumbs digging in as he impishly grabs a handful of Tommy’s arse. Tommy jumps back, swatting at Alfie’s hand, but he’s laughing, 

“Alfie,” he chastised, deeply unwilling to push himself out of the man’s arms, but he does so anyway. “No groping my arse where anyone could see. Curly’s around somewhere.”

Alfie grins, something dirty about it, but he peers around over Tommy’s shoulder, towards the stable. “But I can grope your arse, provided we’re hidden away? Well how about in there? Only the horses will be able to see.”

“Horses still count,” Tommy replies, just to be contrary but he allows himself to be pulled into the stables. He feels giddy, feels like this is all completely reckless, but he doesn’t want it to stop. He hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t known if they were supposed to have a chat about everything, but this feels right; their bodies responding automatically to each other are doing the talking for them. The second they’re inside, out of view, Tommy leaps forward, capturing Alfie’s lips in a breathless kiss, Alfie falling back against the wall with the force of it. Alfie groans against him, arms wrapping back around him, both hands grasping hold of Tommy’s arse firmly, making a statement. His lips are just as warm as he remembered, just as soft, but they’re not as gentle this time around. This time, Alfie’s keeping up with Tommy’s level of enthusiasm, is nipping at him with sharp teeth that makes Tommy’s breath hitch.

“I dreamt about you last night,” Tommy breathes out between kisses, his hands busy stroking through Alfie’s beard, through his hair. The man’s still holding onto his bottom, is pulling him in tighter against him, if anything. 

“Hm,” Alfie growls. “A good dream, I hope?”

Tommy chuckles quietly, torn between his desire to reminisce on the incredibly vivid dream, and to keep kissing Alfie as if his life depended on it. “A very good dream. Think you’d approve.”

One of Alfie’s hands slides up, thumb stroking at the base of his spine, and he leans down to press a kiss to Tommy’s jaw bone. It’s right at the curve of Tommy’s jaw, the sensitive skin of his neck being tickled by the coarse hair of Alfie’s beard. “Yeah? And what, treacle, was I doing in this dream of yours?”

The pet name, once a source of irritation, makes Tommy’s insides burn up. He’s keeping his body relatively still, but the word makes his hips jerk forward against Alfie’s thigh involuntarily. Alfie makes a deeply approving noise at that, mouth gliding lower down Tommy’s neck. Tommy doesn’t generally like having people around his neck, has never been very into being touched there by the girls he’s been with, but with Alfie, it feels different. He tilts his head back, exposing his full throat, which the older man takes immediate advantage of, kissing at Tommy’s Adam apple, down to the hollow between Tommy’s collarbones. He’s not wearing as elaborate an outfit as he might usually, but Alfie still has to tug down the collar on his shirt to reach where he wants, carefully unclasping a button or two. 

“Nothing interesting,” Tommy lies, after a moment, so distracted by Alfie’s movements that he forgets that it’s his turn to respond. “Reading the newspaper, think you were.” He’s still running his fingers through Alfie’s hair, appreciating the texture between his fingers. Alfie’s hair is always a mess, and like this he’s able to tidy the man up a bit. He looks even more handsome with his hair swept back like this, very dapper. Tommy leans down, kissing at his temples.

“Hm,” Alfie pulls up from Tommy’s throat, returning back to reunite their lips. “Think you’ve got a funny definition of what constitutes a good dream, yeah?” His hands have come to grip Tommy’s hips, thumbing over his hip bones. He’s got a firm hold of him, and he releases a deep sigh as he gently pushes Tommy’s hips away from his own. “How about we slow things down, eh? Not that I’m not enjoying the enthusiasm.”

Tommy, to his own horror, lets out an upset little whine, protesting this course of action immensely. If he weren’t so swept away by the warm feeling that he gets whenever Alfie’s looking at him, he’d be mortified. “No,” he disagrees, petulantly, tugging Alfie’s face closer towards him, only to miss kissing Alfie’s lips and catching his cheek as the man turns his head. He huffs. “Why?”

“I was just thinking, sweetie, that we might spend a touch more time getting to know each other on an intellectual level, see, get to know each other’s feelings and emotions. I think that would benefit us immensely, seeing as it was not even 24 hours ago that you were sprinting away from me, right, full speed.” Tommy flushes, averting his eyes now, staring somewhere at the hay covered floor. Alfie continues on. “Couldn’t even look me in the eyes, and you know what? Being an understanding and wise man, I try my best to not take that sort of thing personally, and it seems you have moved past that urge to flee, so no harm done, but it does leave a man with some questions. Reservations, even.”

“Reservations?” Tommy looks back up, nervous now. “About me?”

“Nah,” Alfie cups Tommy’s cheek with his right hand, stroking at the high ridge of bone beneath his eye. “Well, sort of about you, but not in the way you’re thinking, silly boy.”

Tommy leans his face into Alfie’s hand completely, staring up at him with confusion. He’s not sure where this is going. “What do you mean, then?”

Alfie is staring at him as if he’s thinking very hard about how to phrase what he wants to say. “How about I start with a question, see if I can work my way ‘round to it. Am I correct in assuming that I am the first bloke you’ve ever taken a fancy to?”

Tommy flushes with an immediate surge of defensiveness. He is correct in assuming that, and his inexperience had likely been very obvious. But he doesn’t think Alfie’s being mean about it, he’s not trying to make fun of him. His hand is still slowly stroking at his cheek, soothingly, like Tommy was about to bolt. He supposes he does have a track record with that, now. Despite the fact that he’s reasonably certain that Alfie’s not trying to mock him, he still can’t summon the words, so he just nods, instead. 

Alfie nods back at him, because he’d already known, afterall. “Right, no problem there, no problem there at all. But see Thomas, now that we’ve communicated that, now we can move forward with that shared knowledge between us. You’ve never been with a man, and now that I know that with certainty, I will adjust my actions accordingly.”

Tommy’s nerves have died down again, no longer worried that Alfie is going to drop him any time soon. He can’t help but be charmed by the man, about how he’s talking about this with the utmost seriousness, as if Tommy never being with a man was something that required research and debate. “What do you need to adjust your actions for? It's not like I’ve never been with anyone at all.” He grumbles a bit, not really expecting a response. 

“Ah, glad you asked, Thomas.” Alfie pulls both of his hands away from Tommy, throwing his arms out in the air with enthusiasm not suited to the conversation. “For you’re correct, we’re all a bunch of fucking ugly sacks of flesh, right? You, yourself are excluded, as you are a particularly exquisite sack of flesh, and in that context, it’s not all that different, right? But you see Thomas,” he drops his hands, gesturing towards his own body now, as he gives Tommy a significant look. “I’ve got a cock in my trousers. Not got any tits, neither, so while it’s relatively the same in theory, there are a few crucial mechanical differences that you will need to adjust to. And I, in turn, will need to learn a bit of patience, which I’d normally be adverse to, but if it’s in service to your comfort, I am all too willing to accommodate, darling.”

Tommy resists the urge to laugh, if only because he thinks it’d be a bit impolite to laugh at someone who was being nice to him, afterall. He can’t stop himself smiling, though, just a small thing. “Right, and were those your reservations? Your thinking that I am a frail wilting flower that requires a soft hand?”

“On the contrary, treacle, I intend to treat you with a very firm hand, right, but only once we have gotten to that point where you’d like that as well.” He pauses then, quirking his head to the side a bit, like a dog would. “You do know I intend on fucking you, yeah? Certainly not today, probably not tomorrow, but one day, hopefully.”

“Jesus Christ, Alfie.” Tommy’s blushing, _again_ , but he just can’t seem to help it when the man is saying things like that to him. But he can’t just say nothing else, not when Alfie likely does think he’s some delicate flower. “I gathered that, alright?” 

Alfie’s still making a face, words coming out slowly. “Yeah, but you know properly what that entails, right? If you’ve never been with a man, just thought you might not know the specifics.”

Tommy wants to rebuke him, wants to tell Alfie that he knows all about it, thank you very much, but something in him holds him back. He really doesn’t know, and here Alfie was, and he had said he wanted them to talk about it, right? “I,” he hesitates even then, unsure if he wants to ask. “I, er. I assumed it was you putting your,” he waves his hand in the general direction of Alfie’s lower body, “inside of my, er.” He’s truly mortified now. Seems Alfie’s ability to quell his sense of shame only works when he’s got his hands on him. 

Alfie closes his eyes, placing a hand over his own face. He’s clearly trying very hard to stop himself from laughing, which was doing wonders for Tommy’s confidence. With a voice shaking from concealed laughter, Alfie speaks. “Well, I mean, there’s a bit more, some more intimate details, but sounds as if you’ve got the basics, eh? Can go over the rest later.”

“No, tell me now. I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.” Tommy has to turn on his heels in order to say it, in order to gather the courage to continue on with this conversation. He’d really rather know now, though, instead of stumbling into it at a later date, when he won’t be prepared for it. He crosses to the other side of the stable, seating himself on a bale of hay leaned up against the wall. It’s more visible there, but they’re still out of view from the doors, and it’s not as if they’re doing anything but talking, now. Plus, they’d be able to see anyone coming. 

Alfie trails along after him, sits down further back on the bale, leaning against the wall. He extends a hand out, which Tommy takes, allowing himself to be dragged to his side. Alfie throws his arm around his shoulder, holding onto Tommy’s hand. Tommy leans into the embrace, quietly glad that he won’t have to look Alfie directly in the eye while they talk about this. “Well, it’s not just as simple as me sticking my cock in your arse, yeah?” Alfie, of course, had no reservations saying the words. They roll off his tongue naturally. “Nor as quick as that. I’d start you off slowly, see if you even like things up back there, not all men do.”

Tommy considers that. It’s true, that had been something he’d been apprehensive about. What if he didn’t like it? He’d never done anything like that, nothing at all, and he can’t say he had ever been curious before he’d met the man beside him. He’d just figured he’d lay back and try it anyways, because he’d do what Alfie asked of him. “Do you like it?”

Alfie squeezes Tommy’s hand, his shoulders making a shrugging motion. “It’s not bad. Much prefer being the one doing the fucking, but every so often I like to switch things up. Never said no to a couple fingers up there, have I?”

Fingers, Tommy nods, alright. Fingers are involved, then. He could have guessed that, as he’d used his fingers on girls before, and he was starting to get the impression that it was the same general idea. 

“Yeah, I don’t mind, don’t mind at all. You could try it out, too, you know, if you wanted to try fucking me. I believe in equal opportunities, I do. But no offence, mate, would rather you try after I’ve already shown you the basics. I imagine it’d be rather unpleasant to have you rooting around down there, no fuckin’ clue what you’re doing.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy pulls his hand out of Alfie’s grip, using it to hide his face. Alfie’s words, while crass as ever, are intriguing. Alfie’d really let him fuck him? He really had no idea what to expect from it all, but he’d thought that Alfie’d be fucking him, and that was that. But they’ve both got cocks, right? Equal opportunity was right. 

“Hey now,” Alfie’s prying Tommy’s hand back, pulling it back against his chest. His voice takes on a teasing edge. “Don’t hide those pretty eyes from me now. Reckon they’re the only reason I’m here.”

Tommy frowns at him, playing at being offended. “Is that so?” 

Alfie nods, presses a small kiss to the back of Tommy’s hand, still held in his. “Well, that’s not the only reason. That, and the convenience, right? Your bed is right next door to mine.”

“Oh, I’m convenient, now, am I?” In direct contradiction to his challenging words, Tommy swings his leg over Alfie’s thighs, once again climbing up into his lap. The whole talking part of this entire interaction has gone on long enough, he’d much rather get back to the kissing before they had to part ways and go on with their respective days. He doesn’t know where Curly is, doesn’t know when Charlie is to return, and doesn’t know how long Alfie can actually stay here, but he knows their time here is limited. 

“Nah, you’re right. You’re terribly inconvenient.” Alfie doesn’t protest the change in position, just moves his hands back to Tommy’s waist. Tommy mouths at the man’s jaw. “Still gonna fuckin’ do it anyways.”

*

They sit in the stables and make out until Tommy is dizzy with it, until he’s forgotten that they’re only in relative privacy, that his uncle could come back at any moment. But it seems Alfie had been truthful when he’d said that he wasn’t going to fuck him that day— he’d behaved himself for once, had kept things from growing too heated, had pushed him off with a gentle pat to the cheek. Alfie looked flushed, but also alert, present, and Tommy knew that at least one of them had been keeping an eye out for any unwanted visitors. 

Tommy’s reluctant to let Alfie leave. He knows that he has to, knows that it’d stupid to keep him there all day, but he wants him to. He wants to keep Alfie here, to tuck away with him in one of the dark corners where no one would ever find them, and most importantly, wants to discover Alfie’s body for himself. Their talk had left him with a mounting sense of curiosity, as well as the expected arousal. How could Alfie expect Tommy to go on with his day when he couldn’t stop hearing Alfie’s words repeating in his head, couldn’t stop hearing _cock_ and _arse_ and _fingers_. But he lets him go, presses a final kiss to Alfie’s beautiful lips, and tries to turn his mind back towards work. Tries, being the operative word. 

This whole thing had just blossomed out of absolutely nowhere. Two days ago he’d been fine. Two days ago he’d been nervous and unsure around the man, one day ago he’d been inexplicably drawn to him, and now here he was, with a physical ache in his chest now that he’s parted from Alfie. The moment he’d heard the gate to Charlie’s yard snap shut behind Alfie, the ache had begun, twisting it’s way around the bones in his ribcage. It was all he could think about, the only thoughts going through his head revolved entirely around Alfie. He just wanted so much, he didn’t know what to do with himself. 

He’s never felt like this before. Hadn’t known that it could feel like this. He’d heard all the stories, had a theoretical knowledge of romance, and passion, and love, but he’d never given it much thought. He hadn’t felt it with any of the girls he’d liked, had just assumed that that sort of thing was reserved for fairy tales, something that people would write about and would look very pretty on a page, but wasn’t real. He didn’t know it could be this consuming. How could he have known? It wasn’t to say that he’d never had _feelings_ before— he’d liked girls all throughout school, had crushes, had girlfriends. Especially Greta, who he liked very much, Greta had incited a softness in himself that he’d never even thought to question, never thought to resist. She was lovely, and more than that, she was kind, compassionate, with a drive to her that inspired him. He’d thought he loved her. Perhaps he had? But through this thing with Alfie, this wondrous, frantic fervor, all of his memories seemed so… faded. Colourless. Not worse, but somehow less.

He sets himself to work, the day going slow as molasses, the summer heat oozing over him. As time passes, he can feel a growing sense of guilt creeping its way in. Alfie was still on his mind, but so too now was Greta. Greta, who would probably be wondering about his absence, Greta, who he’d forgotten about without a second thought. It wasn’t fair to her. He’d only just figured out what he wanted (that being Alfie), but that didn’t lessen the responsibility he had to her. And he _did_ have a responsibility to her, no matter how he might try and sidestep around it. It might be easier to simply fade into the background, to pretend as if none of it had ever happened, but he couldn’t bring himself to be that cruel. He owed her a proper goodbye, and perhaps even an explanation. He couldn’t tell her that he’d met someone else, that he’d met a _man_ , but he could still tell something of the truth. 

It’s mid-afternoon when he decides what he has to do, and a half an hour longer until he can work up the nerve to actually follow through. He leaves Charlie’s yard (Charlie, who had never bloody returned, probably caught up with some Peaky business, which meant that Alfie _could_ have stayed longer, but that’s neither here nor there) and sets off towards the Jurossi household. It’s a familiar route, one that he’s taken countless times before, knows exactly what streets to avoid, knows most of the people he encounters on his path. He’s dreading this.

When he arrives at the Jurossi’s doorstep, he knocks immediately before he can lose his nerve. Kitty, Greta’s sister answers, and there’s the faintest shift behind her eyes when she recognizes him, as if she’d been talking about him recently. 

“Thomas,” her voice is stiff. He’d only been absent one full day. Had it been so obvious? Could she see the guilt on his face?

“Hello, Kitty.” He steels himself, tries to not let his nervousness show on his face. “Is Greta in?”

*

It goes about as well as he’d expected it to go, which means it had not gone well at all. Kitty had led him into the living room, as if he’d never been in the house before, as if he might get lost in the layout of their tiny house. Greta had been in there, looking surprised but rather pleased to see him, seated beside her mother. Kitty sits on the sofa, on Greta’s other side, leaving Tommy hovering slightly awkwardly in the doorway, but Greta does not seem all that inclined to leave. On the contrary, after she rises to greet Tommy with a peck to the cheek, she returns to her seat, picking up the piece of linen she’d been working on. They’re sewing something, Tommy knows that the family does repairs for half the price a tailor would charge, knows that it’s necessary work that keeps their family with food on the table. With that in mind, he seats himself in an armchair, holds his cap (his one without the razor) politely in his lap and tries his best to make polite conversation with the three Jurossi women until he can pull Greta away into a private conversation.

Kitty is clearly not impressed with Tommy, keeps asking probing questions as to his recent whereabouts. Sure, he'd been spending all of his time here, and his sudden absence the day before might have been strange. But it had only been one bloody day. It’s times like these that he vaguely regrets distancing himself from his family’s business, because it’s not as if anyone would be questioning Arthur about something like this. Sure, the Jurossi’s would have never let him anywhere near Greta had he been an actual Peaky, but the point remained. He doesn’t exactly lie to them, just tells them he’d been busy, he’d had to take care of things, keeps it as obtuse as possible, hiding behind the carefully constructed rules of what a polite and proper family could ask a man. And if Kitty is dissatisfied with his answers, so what? She’d likely be even more upset with him as soon as he can manage to talk to Greta on his own. 

The women eventually put their work away, Kitty stalking off upstairs somewhere, Mrs. Jurossi headed towards the kitchen, where she can still easily eavesdrop on the two of them. Tommy wishes he could do this somewhere else, but night is beginning to fall, and he wouldn’t bring Greta somewhere just to upset her in the dark. 

Still, all things considered, it could have gone worse. Greta, with her clear, sharp eyes, has realized that something is different about tonight, and she appears to physically brace herself as Tommy stands from the armchair to go join her on the couch. She listens to him as he speaks, listens to his apologies for his absence, listens as he lowers his voice even further to say the actual words. She takes it well, squared shoulders deflating softly as he apologizes again, and again, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He can’t tell her the real reason. His heart breaks alongside her, but he can’t tell her. He doesn’t believe her to be cruel or vindictive, but he can’t lay this on her, not when he could end up dead for it. 

With a voice barely trembling, she asks, “was it something I did?” 

Tommy wants to touch her, wants to hold her face between his hands, wants to comfort her, but knows it would be unkind. He knows it would not be well received. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” He opens his eyes wide, stares into hers, because if nothing else, he wants her to know that. “You were perfect. It’s me.”

He leaves soon after, leaving Greta alone on the couch. When he gets to the hallway to the door leading outside, he catches a glimpse of movement, sees Mrs. Jurossi stood there at the archway to the kitchen, watching him. She’s staring at him with contempt in her eyes, all her earlier suspicions about him being a _Peaky devil_ confirmed. “Don’t come back,” she says. He just nods, and leaves out the front door.

*

He doesn’t make it the whole way home before he’s intercepted by Freddie and Danny, on their way to the pub. He hasn’t seen either man for quite a while, Danny busy in the factory, Freddie with his meetings. They invite him out with them, on their way to the Garrison, and it really has been a long time since he’d seen them, so he agrees. His only other plan for the evening had been to head home to see if Alfie were there, and it’d feel strange to go straight to him, so soon after breaking things off with Greta. 

The Garrison is bustling when they arrive, everyone already well on their way to drunkeness. It’s a Friday, Tommy remembers, rather belatedly, of course it’s packed. He spares a glance to the snug as they make their way towards the bar, fully expecting to see his father, but the door is shut tight. He probably is in there.

They order their drinks, then quickly seat themselves in one of the booths by the windows. Tommy settles in first, is quickly boxed in by Freddie at his side. He takes a sip of his whiskey, and he’s sure he must look absolutely miserable. People keep glancing out of the corners of their eyes at him, which only serves to further confirm the current inhabitants of the snug. After a moment, Freddie clasps a hand on his shoulder, and he’s known him since they were just boys in their short pants together, so he asks Tommy what’s wrong. He pauses, suddenly unsure as to whether or not he should reveal what had happened with Greta. It’s a relatively harmless thing to tell your mates, that things haven’t worked out with a girl, but then he’d have to tell them why. Could they read something like that on his face?

But Danny and Freddie are his friends, and Small Heath loves a bit of gossip, so he’s sure they’d hear about it sooner or later. He tells them about Greta, is quick to explain that it just hadn’t felt right anymore. Freddie and Danny make the customary sympathetic grunts at him, Freddie squeezing his shoulder before letting go, and they move on. Danny starts in on a story about a pack of feral cats who have moved into the factory that just keep creeping back in no matter how often they try and scare them off. Gradually, with the combination of the whiskey and the silly tales exchanged between the men, the lingering sensation of guilt and sadness begins to lift from Tommy. Breaking up with Greta had been the proper thing to do, but it didn’t mean that parting from her had made him happy. 

Just as Danny’s returned with another round of drinks for them, the door to the snug is thrown open and Arthur comes lurching out. It’s his brother, but when Tommy cranes his neck, he can spot his father and a few other men he recognizes from around the betting shop. His heart jumps in his chest. Is Alfie in there, just out of view?

“Tommy!” Arthur calls out as soon as he’s recognized his younger brother, grinning broadly as he makes his way over. The people milling about quickly make way for the man, half-stumbling, half-strutting over. “And our Danny and Freddie! How the fuck have you lot been? Been ages.”

“Can’t spend all our time hangin’ ‘round this one no more.” Danny smiles back at the older man, gesturing towards Tommy, affectionately. “We’ve got lives, now, haven’t we?”

Arthur scoffs, seating himself in the empty space beside Danny, making himself comfortable. “You ever get tired of working all day in that fucking factory, mate? We could find some use for you, up at the shop. You too, Thorne, if you ever get sick and tired of your politics, yeah?”

“Arthur,” Tommy snaps, exasperatedly. “Lay off them, not everyone is so excitable about sewing razor blades into their caps.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, making a face at him. “Well, someone’s in a fucking mood.” Tommy resists the urge to reach over the table and throttle him, but only barely. He makes due with rolling his eyes, and he does reach over and snatch the cigarette Arthur pulls out to light right from his hand. He’d still not found a pack, and after the day he’d had, he was in desperate need.

“Don’t worry,” Freddie says, snickering as he watches Arthur’s face transform into one of complete outage at the blatant theft. “He’s just sore because him and Greta are done.”

Tommy cannot believe the traitorous snakes that he surrounds himself with. He rolls his eyes as Danny reaches across the table to punch Freddie’s arm, tries to ignore his older brother, who seems to be flashing through multiple emotions as he absorbs the new information. He seems to settle on something between sympathetic and amused, if the barely pursed state of his lips are anything to go on, as if he wants to laugh at the news.

“Sorry to hear that, Tommy boy.” Arthur furrows his eyebrows, leaning back in his seat. He turns to look at the bar, waving his hand in the air, gesturing to the barkeep. He shouts, “oi, a round of drinks, and make ‘em doubles! My brother here just got dumped!”

“Jesus Christ.” Tommy buries his head in his hands, wishing that he could somehow sink through the floor and disappear off the face of the planet entirely. Freddie throws his arm around Tommy’s shoulder, shaking him with laughter that he doesn’t even try to suppress any longer, as seemingly every man in the pub begins shouting their teasing support. Snakes, all of them. 

To add even more insult to injury, the door to the snug once again swings open, the men inside flooding out. John’s there, Tommy notes immediately as he picks his face out of his hand, as is his father and, of _bloody course_ , Alfie. Tommy’s stomach flutters when he catches sight of the man, who has clearly heard the commotion and is grinning at him, delighted. Tommy still wants to sink through the floor, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to keep his feet on the ground as long as he can keep Alfie looking at him like that. The men from the snug scatter, most making their way to the bar, his brother and Alfie head towards their booth. They’re holding their own pints, John obviously unsteady on his feet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy repeats, shoving Freddie’s arm off his shoulder, then keeps shoving so that he’ll get out of the booth. “Can someone get John a fucking seat before he brains himself?”

Alfie, still on his route towards the booth, raps his knuckles on a nearby table, gesturing for one of the men sitting there to get to their feet, then smoothly snatches the chair. The man he took the chair from grumbles unhappily under his breath, but with a wary glance at Alfie, and Alfie’s company, doesn’t push the subject. Alfie plants the chair at the end of the booth, then takes a deep swig of his drink (something brown) as he guides John with his other hand into the newly procured seat. Then he seats himself in Freddie’s old spot, the spot Tommy had intended for his younger brother. “Satisfied, pumpkin?”

Arthur guffaws under his breath, but Tommy doesn’t bother with a reply. He is rather satisfied, with Alfie’s thigh pressed up against his under the table, out of view, but no one needs to know that. 

“Now,” Alfie starts, only turning his head slightly to glance at Tommy as he speaks. It seems that now he’s managed to kiss Tommy, he’s remembered to be subtle around his family. He’s quiet for a moment, as their new round of drinks are deposited onto the table. “What’s this I hear about being dumped?” John begins giggling, eyes glassy. Freddie has grabbed another chair, this one from an empty table in the back, and has seated himself beside Arthur, away from Alfie. Tommy knows it’s probably just because he doesn’t know Alfie, but he finds himself wondering what his friend thinks of the older man. He commits himself to asking Freddie and Danny about it later on. 

“Yeah, poor lad, heartbroken,” Arthur croons, and Tommy flips him off. He then remembers that he’s still got the cigarette he’s nicked off his brother in his hands but, rather tragically, no matches. Alfie, seeing his fingers flit uselessly around in his pocket as he clutches the cigarette, chuckles under his breath, then turns around and snatches a box of matches from the booth beside theirs. How he knew it’d be there, Tommy has no idea, but he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling at Alfie’s relentless thieving to provide for him. Tommy knocks his foot against Alfie’s, in thanks, and Alfie knocks him right back. 

“I wasn’t dumped,” Tommy finally complains, after he’s lit up his cigarette, nicotine washing over him like a warm blanket and boosting his mood immediately. He doesn’t really know what else to say, his desire to protect Greta (and his own secrets) overpowering the desire to protect his pride. “We just, both decided it wasn’t working.”

John is still giggling, obliterated. “Yeah, that’s what I said when Dorothy Peters broke things off with me.” Tommy inhales deeply from his cigarette, because if he doesn’t, he’ll reach across Alfie’s lap and smack the boy. And while the thought of getting even slightly closer to Alfie is quite pleasant, he’s not sure that he’d be able to move back off of him afterwards. 

“‘S’all semantics,” Alfie waves a dismissive hand, then, rather daringly, pats the back of Tommy’s, resting on the top of the table. The skin that Alfie touches feels tingly, warm.

“Yeah, it’s all semantics,” Arthur chimes in, and Tommy raises his eyebrows at his older brother, doubting that he even knows what the word means. “And besides, doesn’t fucking matter. We’ll find you another woman, Tommy, we will. Already looking for Solomons over here, ain't we?”

Tommy chokes on a peal of laughter, only barely managing to hold it in. The corner of Alfie’s lips quirk up in a bemused smile, but he just takes another sip from his drink. Arthur gives him a confused look, as do Danny and Freddie. Tommy coughs, as if the strange noise he’d just made was him clearing his throat. “Think I can do just fine on me own, eh Arthur?” He smirks, leaning back in his seat and taking a long drag of his cigarette. Plays off the slightly embarrassing moment as him just being a bit of an overconfident git.

It must work, because everyone at the table groans theatrically, even Alfie, but he’s looking back at Tommy with amusement and something darker glinting in his eyes. The man’s eyes flicker over his face, pausing just briefly on his lips, still sucking his cigarette.

“Yeah, yeah, we know you’re handsome, alright, we fucking get it.” Freddie grumbles, still mid-eye roll. “Drink your fucking drink.”

The night passes rather quickly after that, the topic of Greta not being brought up again. Tommy is rather enjoying himself, feeling a deep sense of contentment. He still feels bad every now and then, only amplified by the guilt of how much he’s enjoying himself, but it gets easier to ignore as the night wears on. He’s surrounded by his friends and his brothers, he’s got a belly full of whiskey, nicotine in his veins, and Alfie’s thigh pressed against his. The more they drink, the more physical Alfie gets, rubbing his calf against Tommy’s, even dropping his hand to rest it on Tommy’s thigh. Tommy’s heart nearly jumps out of his chest at that, but the only one who might have been able to see is John, and he’d slumped over the top of the table and passed out long before Alfie dares to. His hand is hot, burning through the fabric of Tommy’s trousers, and he keeps it there, gripping firmly. His pinky will occasionally stroke a pattern, venturing devastatingly close to the seam on Tommy’s inner thigh, making him blush whenever he does so. Tommy wants to reach down, rest his hand on top of Alfie’s, but he doesn’t, too aware of their surroundings. It’d be too obvious. 

Eventually, Arthur, who is looking quite drunk himself, sighs deeply over his glass as he surveys the sleeping John. He offers to take him home, waves off Alfie and Tommy’s offer to help. “Nah, can get him home on me own,” he mutters, picking up his glass and promptly pouring it over John’s head. It’s just the ice and the dregs, and it gets John up immediately, sputtering wildly with outrage. He manages to get the boy to his feet, arm thrown over Arthur’s shoulder as he stoops to remain on his level. They depart, Arthur practically carrying him, and Freddie slides into Arthur’s vacated seat.

A few minutes pass, Danny telling another story about the cats in the factory (he is rather fixated on them). Alfie’s still got his hand on Tommy’s thigh, and now that none of his blood relatives are present at the table, he’s growing bolder. Tommy’s well drunk by this point, and he knows Alfie must be too, though the older man seems to be holding himself together better than he is. Tommy leans back in his seat, allowing his legs to fall open wider than they’d been before, which Alfie’s wandering hand takes full advantage of. Tommy bites the inside of his lip as Alfie’s hand slides down, towards his knee, and then slowly, ( _too_ slow) winds its way back up again. His fingers creep up his inseam until it’s ghosting over where he’s aching for the older man, only just touching him, as if he’s feeling the softness of the fabric. Tommy doesn’t look to his left, doesn’t look to see if anything is showing on Alfie’s face, because he’s too busy making sure nothing is showing on his. Danny’s still talking, Freddie’s leaned on his elbow, eyelids just barely open. 

Alfie’s hand settles more firmly and Tommy can feel himself get hard; he knows that Alfie can feel it too, a small puff of air escaping his nostrils, pleased. Tommy, still staring straight ahead, quietly takes a chance and reaches his left hand under the table, grabbing Alfie’s wrist. He doesn’t say a word, and Alfie doesn’t either, though he’s not moving his hand any more. Tommy, very reluctantly, pushes Alfie’s hand off of him, because there’s no possible scenario where Alfie getting him hard under the table while they’re at the Garrison is going to end well. Now that he thinks of it, he’s no idea where his father has gone off to, having lost track of him a drink or two ago. He could still be lurking around, for all he knew.

“Right,” Tommy says, interrupting Danny’s story, his voice sounding rougher than it had the last time he’d spoken. He clears his throat, and he’s still holding onto Alfie’s wrist. Alfie turns his hand within his grasp, so that he’s holding onto Tommy’s wrist too. “Think it’s about time to call it a night.”

Alfie squeezes Tommy’s flesh, almost makes him gasp. “Think that sounds like a splendid idea, Thomas, as I’m well fucking drunk, aren’t I?” It’s the first time he’s spoken since long before Arthur left. And he doesn’t sound that drunk.

Danny and Freddie, newly awoken, protest Tommy’s departure, but it’s clear that the night is over. Alfie releases Tommy’s arm, Tommy glancing down and feeling a rush when he sees the faint white outline of Alfie’s fingers, pressed into his skin. Sliding out of the booth proves to be more of a problem than he’d thought it would be, his foot catching on a table leg and he nearly tumbles forward. Alfie manages to catch him before he lands face first on the dirt covered floor, and when Tommy looks up at him, he’s grinning. 

“Think our Thomas here is more drunk than he’s let on,” the man muses, “do you need me to carry you, treacle?” 

Tommy feels his face heat up in response, but he’s not drunk enough that he’d miss this opportunity that Alfie’s set up for them. “You don’t need to bloody carry me,” he grumbles, but he makes a show of stumbling a bit forward, Alfie’s arm tightening around his chest to keep him steady.

“You alright, Tom?” Freddie calls out after them, voice tinged with concern. Tommy _is_ drunk enough that he’s not going to consider that too deeply. He just waves his hand, glancing back at the two of them, smiling reassuringly as Alfie guides them out the door. 

“A good friend, that Freddie.” Alfie’s voice comes from closer than Tommy had expected, just beside his ear. He’s speaking lowly, just a rumble in the near black street. It’s late enough that people are a lot more scarce than they are usually, giving them slightly more privacy than the Garrison, at least. Tommy leans in closer to Alfie the further they get from the pub, still playing at being more drunk than he is so that he can shamelessly feel Alfie’s chest against him. “Think he was concerned about you disappearing in the dark with a gangster.”

“Maybe he’s jealous,” Tommy breathes, because there’s no need for them to talk louder than a whisper right now. The night is almost oppressively quiet, the only noise coming from their footsteps, and the distant sounds of people on their own ways home. “He did say I was handsome.” He doesn’t know why he says it. He’s prodding Alfie’s defenses, seeing what the man will and won’t react to. He’s so warm at his side, the heat of Alfie’s body staving off the chill of night. Tommy’s arm is wrapped around his shoulder for the support, and he pulls at the fabric at Alfie’s collar, slipping his fingers inside. No one would notice, no one could tell. 

“Hm,” Alfie’s voice is still low, but he doesn’t sound angry. “Believe he was just stating the fucking obvious, Tommy. Though, is handsome the right word for this situation? Fucking gorgeous, you are. A beauty.”

Tommy smiles, staring at his feet. He wants to ask Alfie to elaborate, but stops himself when he remembers Alfie’s teasing the last time he fished for a compliment. His drunk mind stumbles clumsily to something it had been considering for a while now, ever since Arthur had said it. “So.” He tries to keep the smile out of his voice, tries to play it serious, but fails spectacularly. “Arthur’s finding you a woman, then?”

Alfie laughs out loud, noisy and open. Tommy likes the sound of it, wants to press his ear against Alfie’s ribcage and listen to him laughing. “He’s declared it his mission to find me a lovely young lady. I told him that I have very particular tastes when it comes to women, and that I dare not think that he could find any woman in the whole of this ugly fucking city that would live up to my preferences.”

“Your preferences.” Tommy states, deadpan. He glances over at Alfie now, and he looks so fucking pretty in the moonlight, doesn’t he? All pale skin, dark eyes? Tommy reaches the hand not currently occupied in Alfie’s shirt, and gently touches the coarse hair of his beard. “What might those preferences be?”

“Well you see, Thomas,” Alfie’s voice is just as serious sounding as Tommy’s deadpan delivery, but he’s leaning into Tommy’s touch, nuzzling against his hand. Tommy can feel his skin below the beard, can feel the bones of his jaw as he draws his hand lower. “I strongly _prefer_ a nice cock between their legs, which, while not entirely impossible to find, I find it easier to look in a rather different direction.”

Tommy bites his lip. He hasn’t paid attention to where they are for what feels like ages, Alfie could have led them anywhere, but he recognizes the street as being just around the corner from home when he glances away for a second. There’s no one around. There’s an alley nearby, Tommy knows there’s a dark, quiet alley nearby, one that he could drag the older man into and no one would ever be able to tell. “Did you tell Arthur that?” He says instead, but he’s pulling Alfie towards the alley.

“‘Course I didn’t,” Alfie scoffs, turning his head to look towards where Tommy’s guiding them. When he looks back, Tommy knows that he’s realized his plan. “He might have thought I was flirting with him, right?” He somehow lowers his voice even further, quickening his steps, and now he’s the one dragging Tommy. “And as we are both aware by this juncture, there is only one Shelby I’d like to kiss.”

Tommy’s getting hard again, just from the sweetness of Alfie’s words, echoing through his rapidly emptying brain. They’re at the mouth of the alley now, just one more step and they’ll disappear into the dark. It’s probably for the best; they’re definitely not being as subtle as they might have thought, hanging off each other as they are. “Just kiss?”

Alfie grins, teeth glinting, predatory, then pushes him backwards into the alley. Alfie’s mouth is on his before he can suck in a full breath, absolutely ferocious, making Tommy’s knees buckle at the pressure. It’s alright, though, because Alfie’s got his hands on him, keeping him level enough to continue. Tommy regains his balance, throwing both his arms around the older man’s neck to give his poor weak knees a bit of help, clinging to his shoulders. Alfie’s guided them against a wall, hands tight on his hips, and Tommy can hear himself making soft, satisfied noises as he kisses the man back. He feels bizarrely safe, back braced against the wall, boxed in by the man’s larger frame, and his cock is _aching._

“This is a shit plan,” Alfie rumbles between kisses, and Tommy scoffs, because this is a _great_ fucking plan. His lips feel swollen, bruised, and he lets Alfie know how much he disapproves of his assessment by working his way lower with his mouth. It still feels strange, the whiskers under his lips as he kisses at the curve of his jaw, still feels new and unfamiliar. Alfie tilts his head backwards, towards the stars in the sky. His chest is heaving, Tommy can feel it moving against him. 

“It’s a great plan.” Tommy disagrees after a moment, kissing at one particular spot at the base of the man’s neck, going over it with his tongue. He wants to leave a mark there, he decides, wants to see it in the morning, proof that this moment is happening. 

“No, it’s a shit plan.” To punctuate his point, Alfie rocks his hips forward, and Tommy feels that familiar jump of his stomach as he feels the length of Alfie’s cock against his hip. “Can’t even take your fucking clothes off here, can I?”

Tommy pauses in his very important work of leaving a love bite on Alfie’s neck. The last time he’d felt Alfie’s cock against him, it had left him feeling panicked. He’s still definitely a bit nervous, but this time, the panic doesn’t rise up in him. This time, he’s definitely interested, if the twitching of his own cock is anything to go on. “Thought you said you weren’t going to fuck me tonight, nor tomorrow.” He looks up at Alfie through his lashes, and in the dark of the alley, he can only barely see him looking back at him. 

Alfie surges forward for another kiss, biting at Tommy’s lower lip with a grunt. Once he’s satisfied with swallowing Tommy’s fucking soul in one kiss, he pulls away again, Tommy chasing after his lips as he goes. “Not gonna fuck you, am I? Don’t mean I can’t see you naked on your back.”

His words shoot through Tommy’s body like a bullet, and if he weren’t hard before, he definitely was now. Tommy’s head is empty of all thoughts except for Alfie’s words, bouncing around his skull, reverberating like the man had screamed it in his ear. Alfie made perfect sense, he realized, this _is_ a shit plan, and it _is_ because there are too many layers of clothing between their bodies, makes him want to risk it and start stripping on the spot. He doesn’t, frozen with the indecision of it, just bites his bottom lip, keeps looking up at the older man through his lashes.

Alfie groans, hand darting up to grab Tommy’s chin, “you can’t fucking look at me like that.” He presses a gentle kiss to Tommy’s lips, just barely, before moving his lips to kiss his cheekbones, one after the other. Tommy feels like he’s being worshipped, like he’s some precious thing resting in the palm of Alfie’s hand.

“Look at you like what?” Tommy murmurs, playing coy, tilting his chin up the best he can while still being held still by Alfie. He opens his eyes wide, blinking, like he’s no idea what he’s going on about. 

“With those big fucking ‘fuck me’ eyes, you fucking hazard.” Both of Alfie’s hands squeeze tighter in unison, the one on his hip, and the one on his chin. Tommy lets his mouth fall open, feels Alfie’s thumb drift ever closer to his lips, grazing over, as if he’s being cautious about it. The moment his thumb is close enough, Tommy licks his tongue over the tip, tasting his salty skin, doesn’t dare blink his eyes as Alfie slips his thumb in his mouth. Once inside, Tommy closes his mouth, nipping playfully at the digit, swirling his tongue around. It should feel silly, it should make Tommy feel embarrassed, but not here, not when Alfie’s still looking at him like that, like seeing Tommy’s lips around his thumb is devastating to look at. Alfie clears his throat roughly, “we have to fucking go.”

“Mm,” Tommy hums in agreement, but doesn’t let go of Alfie’s thumb, begins sucking on it in earnest. It’s wet, Tommy fully salivating at the taste of it in his mouth, and every now and then a slick slurping noise escapes the seams of his lips. Alfie looks as if he might faint, eyes trained on where his thumb is hidden. Gently, Tommy feels as Alfie slides his thumb further inside his mouth, taking over control, and pressing down on Tommy’s tongue. The pressure is careful but firm, right on the centre of his tongue, and Tommy gags on it, letting his jaw slowly fall open. He pants, suddenly feeling completely out of breath as Alfie observes him, mouth hanging open as he struggles to keep his gagging under control. 

“Lets go,” Alfie’s voice is steely, firm, and he withdraws his body completely, leaving Tommy panting and shivering from the loss of contact. The older man turns on his heels and steps out of the alley, not even bothering to see if Tommy is following after him. He knows he is. 

*

It must be 3 or 4 in the morning, and the Shelby house is thankfully dark when they sneak in through the back door. Alfie had stood back as Tommy unlocked the door, but as soon as they’re inside, he’s very much in control, guiding Tommy through the empty rooms and up the stairs with a hand on his shoulder. Tommy doesn’t mind, is curving his body into the touch, biting his lip to stop himself from doing something stupid like whining or moaning. They climb the stairs on light feet, newly aware of their surroundings now that there’s a chance of waking someone. Tommy can hear the distant sounds of snoring, of his family sleeping peacefully, and he holds his breath, as if that’d make a difference. What’s the plan here, he wonders briefly, as they get to the top floor, sparing a glance to make sure that John’s door is closed. Now that they’re here, the reality of the situation is pressing in on him, making him feel more sober than he had in the safety of the alley. He hovers in front of his door, unsure as to what they’re supposed to do from here.

Alfie doesn’t seem to have the same reservations, releasing a great sigh as they finally find themselves free of obstacles, striding forward without hesitation, opening Tommy’s door and dragging him inside. He has the good sense to make sure he closes the door behind him quietly, and Tommy realizes that this is the first time they’ve been in Tommy’s bedroom with the door closed. His cheeks are burning, and he leans up against the wall, looking to Alfie, waiting for the man to tell him what to do. 

Alfie is half-turned away from him, ripping off his jacket, tossing it into the corner. He glances back as he starts working at the buttons of his shirt, fingers slowing down as he realizes that Tommy has frozen up in the corner. He takes a deep breath, seemingly steadying himself. He drops his hands from his shirt, then takes a cautious step towards the younger man. “Y’alright there, Thomas?”

Tommy nods quickly, because he _is_ alright, he’s just a bit nervous, the walls of his bedroom reminding him of who he is, of what’s really happening here. He wants Alfie still, wants him desperately, but his limbs feel as if they’ve locked up, couldn’t reach for the other man if he tried. 

Alfie nods back at him, doubt clearly visible on his face. “You know nothing needs to happen right now, yeah? I could just go back to my bedroom over there, and we can try again another day, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“No,” Tommy insists, finally finding the strength to lurch himself forward, falling into Alfie’s arms. It’s about all the coordination he’s capable of, limbs still feeling numb, but he’s able to shrug out of his own jacket and let it fall to the floor. “I want you. Want you right now.”

Alfie cups Tommy’s face in both of his hands, gazing at him with such intensity that Tommy wants to shy away from it, but he doesn’t. He stares back at the older man, bracing himself, trying to show him that he’s okay, that he’s sure. 

After a moment, Alfie nods again, then kisses Tommy softly. It’s too slow, too gentle, Tommy’s still hard and he rocks his hips forward to encourage this, to get things going. The man pulls away, and the previous concern that had been knitted in his brow has lessened a bit. “Alright, alright. We’re not doing anything too crazy, nothing scary at all, right. Have you any requests, sweetheart?”

Tommy inhales deeply, trying to clamp down on a train of thought, dizzy as he is from Alfie’s proximity. Requests? His request would be for Alfie to take charge here, to do what he’d like, to show Tommy what was going to happen. He doesn’t know how this works, doesn’t know any of it. “Touch me?” He asks, definitely a question, unsure of what he’s meant to ask for. 

“Rest assured, I will most definitely be touching you, and very fucking soon. But how about this first?” Alfie takes a step back, makes sure that the younger man is steady on his feet before he releases him completely. Tommy stands there, staring with furrowed brows, as Alfie begins pushing off his suspenders, taking off his own shirt. Tommy’s seen his chest before, of course, but it doesn’t stop the shock of electricity that fizzles through his body at seeing it again, in the dim light streaming in through his window. Tommy thinks that maybe he should light a candle, but he just can’t tear his eyes off of Alfie slowly stripping before him. He wants to reach out as Alfie tosses his shirt into the corner, wants to feel the hair on his broad chest, but he can’t quite muster the courage. 

Alfie waits for a moment, staring at Tommy significantly until he understands his meaning and reaches for his suspenders and the buttons on his own shirt. He feels slightly self-conscious, very aware of Alfie watching his shaking fingers, pouring over his exposed skin as Tommy slides out of the fabric. He’s so much slimmer than the older man, can’t fully understand why Alfie would be looking at with so much hunger. Surely he’d prefer someone with more muscle? Someone with more strength in his torso, someone who didn’t have knobbly knees? Tommy tries to push that line of thought out of his head. Didn’t matter now, anyways. 

Alfie exhales approvingly after Tommy’s out of his shirt, begins undoing his trousers, and Tommy feels his breath catch in his throat. This is new territory here; they’d seen each other without shirts before, had seen each other’s feet and calves in the water by the river, but nowhere in between. Tommy’s legs are feeling weak again, as if they might give at any moment, so he backs himself up, sitting down on the edge of his bed as he watches. The room is deathly silent, no noise except their rather heavy breathing and the sound of fabric rustling as Alfie removes his trousers. He’s wearing white pants underneath, little garters around his calves to hold up his socks, but he’s pushing those off along with his shoes to finish taking off the trousers. Tommy’s heart is pounding in his chest, staring at the man, who seems to be taking up all the space in the room. Alfie takes a step closer, and Tommy can see the tent in his pants where his cock is. “You still alright?” He asks, voice surprisingly tender. 

Tommy nods, breath stuck in his throat. The man is right in front of him now, torso at level with Tommy’s face. He’s frozen again, but he’s able to release a gasp as he watches the man sink slowly to his knees. 

“Can I help you with all that?” Alfie gestures towards Tommy’s trousers, and Tommy nods again, jerkily. Alfie’s kneeling in front of him, and he’s reaching his hands out to slide them down his thighs, just touching him comfortingly. His hands trail down his knees, his calves, arriving at his feet. He unties his shoes, slowly, one after the other, and Tommy cannot look away from his face, bowed slightly as he works on his garters, then his socks. He looks so good, Tommy finally musters the bravery to move his arms, stroking his hand through Alfie’s hair. The man glances up at him, and his eyes are so dark, so blatant in his desire for him. Having successfully removed Tommy’s shoes, he readjusts his position on his knees and reaches slowly towards Tommy’s belt, giving him ample time to protest. Tommy doesn’t, of course he doesn’t, feels as if his entire body is vibrating as Alfie pulls off his belt, then his trousers, lifting his hips to help him slide out. 

It feels as if he’s losing his virginity all over again, as if he’s never exposed his body to another human being before. Alfie’s leaning forward and pressing soft kisses to his thighs now, beard tickling the sensitive skin. His warm hands are tracing their way upwards, an index finger slipping under at the top of his pants, poised to tug down… 

“Wait,” Tommy chokes out, and Alfie stops immediately, tilting his head up to stare questioningly up at him. Tommy bites the inside of his cheek, not even sure what he’s about to say. “You first. I want to,” his voice trails off, but he inhales deeply and continues. “I want to see you.”

Alfie stares at him, face impossible to read, but he’s nodding. “Alright, not a problem, sweetie. Not a problem at all.” He heaves himself to his feet, significantly less graceful than he had been going down. The normalcy of the man’s movements put Tommy slightly more at ease, finding that he had been getting a bit lost in the swirling thoughts in his head. He clasps his hands together, waiting patiently, nervously, as Alfie takes a slight step back. “Right,” the man takes a deep breath, and Tommy is relieved to hear that he’s finally sounding a bit nervous too. “Here we go. My cock.”

Tommy cracks a smile at the man’s murmuring, squeezing his hands together tightly as Alfie tugs down his pants in one quick motion. Tommy’s looking up at the man’s face, has to stare at him to reassure himself that this is something he wants. He traces over Alfie’s jaw, his slightly crooked nose, his pretty eyes. He’s fucking handsome, Tommy wants to stand up and kiss him, right there, and when Alfie finally finishes looking anxiously at everything else in the room and looks at _him_ , Tommy knows that this really is something he wants. Whatever Alfie has on offer, he’d take, he’d worship, he’d adore. Tommy takes a deep breath, and looks down.

It’s… a cock. It’s slightly red and angry looking, and it’s, maddeningly but not altogether surprising, bigger than Tommy’s. He hadn’t known what he’d expected, hadn’t known what he’d been imagining, because it’s _just_ a cock with a bit less skin. Hard like it is, he might not have even been able to tell otherwise. If anything, it just makes him more curious to feel, to touch it. What would it feel like, stroking it? Would it be just as sensitive around the top, where silky skin would have slid over it? Tommy’s hands are in his lap, still clenched together, but as he considers what Alfie would feel like in his grip, he presses the heel of hand down on his own cock, newly interested in the proceedings. 

Alfie’s quiet, just staring down at him, watching his reaction. Tommy’s fixated, wouldn’t even notice that he’s still unconsciously rubbing at his cock through his pants if it weren’t sending sparks of pleasure through his veins. Tommy tears his eyes away, looking back up at the older man. “Can I… can I touch it?”

Alfie’s cock visibly twitches, distracting Tommy away from making eye contact. “‘Course you fucking can.” He doesn’t sound capable of saying much else, lost for words. Tommy preens a bit at that, pleased that he’s managed to make the man lose his voice, but he’s got more important matters at hand, literally. His hand is no longer shaking as he reaches forward, movement driven by his curiosity, overpowering his previous shyness. He just wants to feel.

He begins with just a soft touch, dragging a finger over the length of it, starting slightly when Alfie’s hips jerk forward of their own volition. “Sorry,” Alfie grunts, but he’s got nothing to be sorry for, Tommy can hear the way he’s clenching his teeth together, clearly struggling with staying still. Tommy continues with his tiny movements, still featherlight; he’s impossibly hot under his fingertips, silky smooth, but dry, too dry. Tommy looks up at Alfie quickly, to confirm that the man is still staring down at him, now with a slightly anguished expression. He pulls his hand back, watches the way Alfie’s face screws up as Tommy gets his mouth nice and wet before licking a stripe on the palm of his hand. He doesn’t know where the bravery comes from, just knows that he wants to keep Alfie looking at him like that, like he couldn’t possibly bear to look away. Hand newly wet, he reaches back out again, this time not settling for using just his fingertips, this time wrapping his fingers around the girth of his cock. It’s like his dream, where he’d just held the man in his hand, but this time, he reminds himself that Alfie is very much a real person and not just a figment of his imagination, and he probably shouldn’t just sit there holding it. 

It’s slightly awkward as he starts with long, slow strokes, if he were being honest. He’s jerked himself off, of course, but the angle here is all wrong for that, right in his face. And it feels different, no extra skin to ease the slide, the saliva on his hand only barely enough. He doesn’t think he’s doing a good job here, doesn’t think that Alfie would be enjoying himself very much if it weren’t for the fact that he was so hard already. And the man above him does sound very much like he’s having a good time, soft little noises that Tommy wouldn’t have imagined possible coming from him escaping from his throat. _Is this right?_ He wants to ask, wants to make sure, feeling his stomach clenching and twisting from newly awakened nerves. He wants to do a good job, wants to please the man above him, doesn’t want him to make do with a lackluster handjob because he thinks that’s all Tommy’s capable of. It doesn’t matter how sweet he sounds, groaning like that. Tommy could be doing better. 

Determined, Tommy leans in closer, bringing his other hand into the fray. He knows what feels nice on him, he knows what he likes when he’s touched, doesn’t matter if he’s never done this before. He keeps stroking with his one hand, while he wraps his other tightly around the base of Alfie’s cock. Alfie groans again, his hips jumping forward, but Tommy’s got him, isn’t letting go. He picks up the speed, not even looking down anymore, is just looking up to gauge the man’s reactions, how he bites his lips when he twists in a certain way, how he gasps when he goes over the tip with his palm. It’s arousing, watching Alfie react like this, watching him come apart, Tommy shifting his own hips around to try in vain to find some friction for his own weeping dick. He knows he could just touch himself, knows he doesn’t necessarily need two hands for what he’s doing, but he couldn’t deprive the older man of the pressure, so he just tries to put it out of his mind. 

“Thomas. Tom, Tommy.” Alfie’s gasping out, reaching down to try and pull Tommy’s hands off of his dick. “As euphoric as this is, it’s is gonna be over way too fucking soon if you keep this up, yeah? Let me touch you.” But Tommy doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to take his hands off, doesn’t want to stop hearing those noises coming from Alfie. He removes the hand gripping the base, but only to swat Alfie’s hands away, continuing his strokes with the other. Alfie tries again, but Tommy is determined here, is filled with a drive he’s never felt before. It’s still too dry. His lips twist upwards as he gets an idea, something he’s had in the back of his mind since the second Alfie pulled down his pants. Still batting away Alfie’s hands, Tommy closes the distance between his face and the man’s dick, kitten licking at the pearly drops of precome gathering at the tip. 

“Fuck!” Alfie swears loudly, and Tommy pulls back, smirking, but he reaches up, patting at the man’s chest, shushing him as he laughs under his breath. “Yeah, very fucking funny,” Alfie growls, significantly quieter than before. He’s stopped trying to push Tommy away, settles for winding his fingers through Tommy’s hair. “Well, carry on, if you’re so goddamn determined, eh?”

Tommy happily obliges. The drop of precome he’d licked off his cockhead had been warm, overpoweringly salty, unfamiliar. It’s not exactly a pleasant taste, but even that is doing strange things to him. There’s something inherently erotic about it, about it being Alfie’s; the knowledge beating against the backs of his eyelids as he closes his eyes to concentrate. He’d been the culprit behind the man above him being so hard, he’d be the one to drive him to this point. It makes him brave, makes him push past the slight discomfort at the first taste. He puts his bravery to good use, focuses on using his tongue. He’s quick and teasing at first, half because he wants to hear Alfie’s sweet little groans whenever he licks at the tip, impossibly fast, and half because he genuinely needs to work himself up to anything more. With a deep breath, he readjusts his position on the bed, leans his face in closer, and wraps his lips around the head fully. Once in his mouth, he sucks in, sealing his lips around the cock, swirling his tongue around just underneath. Alfie’s hands, previously running through Tommy’s hair, grabs a handful each, pulling just hard enough that Tommy hums approvingly around the cock in his mouth. Encouraged, he tries to sink further down on Alfie’s cock, ever careful of the position of his teeth. But once he gets to a certain point, he doesn’t go any further, finds that he _can’t_ go any further. The closer it gets to the back of his throat, the more and more his body rebels against his actions, gag reflex rearing in as soon as he gets even close. He knows through experience that other people are able to take people in deeper, are able to have it lodged all the way back there, but this is the best he’s going to be able to do without retching up the contents of his stomach. 

Alfie doesn’t seem to mind, Tommy can still hear him, can still feel his fingers in his hair, loosening as Tommy pulls off of him. He doesn’t stop the suction, just moves back so that he can refocus his efforts on the head. He continues on like that, slurping down as far as he can go before pulling up and tonguing at the tip, until his jaw starts to ache. He must look a sight, cheeks gone pink from the effort, hair mussed from Alfie’s fingers. 

“Alfie,” he grunts out, pulling off with an obscene pop. He’d happily continue this, curious to see what the man would taste like when he comes, but his own cock is really hurting for attention by this point. It feels as if it’s been ages since they’d started this, ages since they’d left the Garrison. He still doesn’t quite know what he’d like right now, just knows that he’d very much like to come soon, thank you very much. He leans back on his elbows, panting slightly. His voice sounds almost as rumbling as Alfie’s, and he doesn’t know what to ask for. “Please.” He simply rasps out.

Alfie’s staring at him in the moonlight, and he’s still looking at him with that anguish that no one has ever looked at him like before. In the dark, he completely misses the moment that the man springs into action, is dragging Tommy’s pants off in the blink of an eye, climbing up onto the bed in the same breath. It’s all going to be over awfully soon, Tommy knows, throwing a hand over his mouth to prevent the keening that threatens to escape as he feels Alfie draping himself over his body, hips slotting together, heavy and solid. Alfie’s rolling his hips, cock sliding in the crease between Tommy’s thighs, and Tommy does moan out loud when the man takes his cock in his hand. He knows exactly what he’s doing, knows exactly the way to twist and flick his wrist to bring Tommy teetering dangerously close to the edge, and Tommy’s furiously jealous of every single man who has ever been in his place before this. It’s all sweat, and hot breath, Alfie’s face buried into the crook of his neck as he desperately works the both of them, still rutting into Tommy’s hip. Tommy jerks forward in his grasp as he feels himself tip over the edge— gasping, hands scrambling for something to grab onto, settling on sinking his fingers into the flesh on Alfie’s shoulders. He comes harder than he can remember ever coming before, his legs jumping up sporadically, twitching in the aftershocks. 

“Fuck,” Alfie chokes, and then Tommy can feel him coming too with a frantic drive of his hips, spilling over their stomachs, adding to the mess Tommy’s already made. If he weren’t so busy reeling from his own orgasm, he’d be able to fully appreciate the sensation of having the man come against his body, come _on_ his body. It’s his first time, afterall. He should be savouring this. 

Alfie collapses on top of him, a welcome weight, Tommy still clutching onto the man’s shoulders. It makes it harder to catch his breath, but he couldn’t push the man off, couldn’t bear the separation so soon after coming. He’d never quite understood the urge for a cuddle after sex, but he does now. He wants to wrap himself around Alfie, oversensitive cock be damned, wants to wind his limbs around him like a vine and attach himself there forever. Alfie seems to agree, doesn’t give any indication that he will be moving at any point in the near future, only seems to sink deeper into Tommy’s bones. Tommy hums, feeling a deep sense of contentment settle over his body, turning his insides into mush as he drifts in that hazy space that exists solely after achieving a spectacular orgasm. It’s a contentment, intermixed with the occasional jolt of what feels close to outrage at the thought that he’d gotten this far in his life without this ever happening before. It’d just been breathing against each other’s necks in the dark. How had it felt so good? How had it taken him by such surprise? Like Alfie had reached directly inside of him and yanked at his insides until all he could see were stars dotting the ceiling of the bedroom he’d spent almost every night of his life in up until then? It was a _handjob._

“What the fuck,” Tommy finally manages to say a few minutes later, and even to him his voice sounds bewildered, puzzled by the pleasure that had passed between them. “That felt so good. What the fuck?” 

Alfie grunts, rather belatedly, as if it had taken a few extra seconds for the words to make sense in his mind. “Glad to hear, mate, ‘ppreciate the compliment. Though I daresay you’re the one who’d done most of the work, eh?”

“No, that was fucking— that was,” he can’t conjure the words, can’t navigate through the fuzziness of his brain. He’s sure that he should be having a meltdown right about now, sure that if he waited long enough that the familiar sense of panic would begin rising in him. As it was, every time he attempts to summon the trail of thought that would lead him into full-scale hysteria, he finds himself automatically unwinding, such is the extent of his state of contentment. How can he freak out when Alfie’s lips are resting against the side of his neck, kissing softly the more and more the man comes back to awareness? When the weight of his body is still pressing him down into his mattress, heavy enough to make him feel secure, safe? He hadn’t even noticed that he was smiling, so concerned with the state of his body, the unfamiliar sensations of a man above him, hair and come decorating their stomachs, spent cock almost nestled against his own. 

“Was decent.” Alfie bites down on Tommy’s collarbone, making the younger man suck in his breath, squeezing his fingers tighter in retaliation. “Was alright. You know. Adequate.”

“ _Adequate_ , he says.” Tommy rolls his eyes, still too spaced out for proper snark, despite how much the man might deserve it. The words come out more affectionate than he intended. “Five minutes ago you were bloody whimpering, rutting against my thigh.”

“Oh, spare me the sweet talk, love, you’ve already tricked me into your bed, eh?” Alfie’s laughter feels just as nice as he’d imagined, rumbling through his ribcage. “The sun’s coming up.”

Tommy fully opens his eyes, which had been half-lidded as he drifted through time and space, and he turns his head to look out the window. Alfie’s right, the sky is shifting into that pretty pale grey that immediately precedes the dawn. He knows that somewhere, far away from the smokiness and smog of Small Heath, that birds would be singing, can almost hear their song if he listens hard enough. Alfie should probably go if he wants to avoid any trouble, should return to his dark closet of a room, and leave Tommy’s embrace. 

“Should probably go.” Alfie confirms, but he sounds just as disappointed as Tommy is. “Wouldn’t want one of your brothers bursting in, or your fucking father. Don’t think they’d quite approve of our activities.”

Tommy just nods, finding himself mute once more. He hadn’t needed the reminder of his family’s disapproval, but it helps him to release his hold on Alfie’s shoulders. The man slowly withdraws, pressing one final kiss onto Tommy’s lips, the gentle kind that makes his head spin and his knees fall open invitingly. Once Alfie’s stood up, he makes a quick scan of the room for his clothing, pulling his pants up but just gathering the rest in his arms, wiping at his stomach with his shirt. Before he leaves, he tosses the shirt at Tommy, who is still too dazed and uncoordinated to catch it, but he obeys the man’s unspoken suggestion and cleans himself up as well. 

Hovering in front of the closed door, Alfie watches Tommy, his expression once again completely unreadable. Tommy tries to keep eye contact, he really does, but the longer that the man stares at him, lying naked on top of his sheets, legs sprawled haphazardly, the harder it is to look back. He blushes, eyes dipping demurely down. “Good night, Alfie.”

Alfie takes a minute to respond, looks as if he’s trying to memorize the scene before him, eyes flickering quickly across his form. “Good night, Tommy. Sweet dreams.”

He slips out of his bedroom, the quiet sound of his footsteps fading as the door shuts behind him. Tommy can hear him enter his room, can hear the creaking of the shitty, old mattress as he settles in. Tommy turns back to his window, and looks out at the sky. Wonders if the birds are singing in their secret clearing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! i made a peaky blinders sideblog on tumblr dot com, and if thats your thing i'd love to chat about how pretty cillian is or anything peaky @ all :~) i'm [tsolomons](https://tsolomons.tumblr.com)


	3. i flew up to your arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... hi !
> 
> listen. i know. i KNOW i'm the worst. i know i've shown up 2 months late. i know! do i have excuses? a whole heap of 'em (my ao3 bookmarks will reveal all). do any of them matter, in the grand scheme of things? nope! for now i'll just apologize for how absurdly long this took and assure you all it will not happen again, with my fingers crossed behind my back. i'm sorry! 
> 
> i do Not like the pacing of this chapter and how it turned out, but i’ve been agonizing over it for 2 weeks and just decided to post it already
> 
> also, to a certain tumblr user who made a certain request regarding a baby! i've more bad news for you! this is not that chapter! but i haven't forgotten and it WILL happen. if you're even still reading this, after so long. again, SORRY 😅
> 
> *  
> re: the content of the chapter, i've added the "abusive parent" tag, as a precaution, because there is mention of arthur sr. being an asshole who knocks around his kids (mainly, tommy). it's only even mentioned or alluded to in this chapter, but wanted it stated up front, in case that is something that is particularly upsetting or triggering to some people!!!!

He can’t have been asleep for more than an hour or two before there is a loud knocking on his door. His body is a mess of contradictions; he’s still blissed out from his night with Alfie, but having been ripped from his meagre amount of sleep leaves him disorientated and rather cross. He stares blearily at the ceiling, wondering if he had only dreamt of the knocking, until whoever it is knocks again, proving that it had in fact been a reality.

“Just a minute,” he calls out, voice dry and cracked. He suspects that it’s Alfie, as no one in his family ever bothers him in the morning, but he’d quite like to be not stark naked on the rare chance that it’s not the older man. He pulls himself out of bed, where he’d fallen asleep still on top of the sheets, too worn out to even nestle under a blanket. He pulls on his old pants from their place on the floor, pulls on an undershirt for good measure, as the remnants of dried semen might be visible in the harsh light of day. He’d barely cleaned himself off, afterall. Satisfied, he swings the door open, wiping at his face with a free hand to wipe the sleep from his eyes. “What do you—”

It’s not Alfie, it’s Pol. His surprise at seeing her at his door is only just outweighed by his relief that he’d taken the time to get dressed at all. She’s looking at him, a careful look in her eyes as she surveys him. He doesn’t miss the way that her eyes flicker behind him, taking in the rumpled mess of his bedroom— his clothes from the night before laying scattered across the floor, the mess of his sheets. Alfie’s shirt is somewhere in that mess, hopefully inconspicuous enough to escape her suspicious gaze, and he wedges himself in the doorway in such a way that prevents her from looking too closely. “Morning, Pol.”

She ignores his greeting entirely, still looking at him in the way that makes alarm bells begin to ring inside of his head. Pol has always been the smartest of them, especially in matters of the heart. He’d never had a problem with it, as all of the matters of _his_ heart had revolved around soft and pretty girls who he had been perfectly suited to running off and marrying if he had so desired. But now, with this secret he had to hide so tightly inside of himself, she seems as big a threat as anything else. 

“I’m headed to the market.” She states sharply, after a moment’s staring. “You’re coming with me.”

He blinks at her. He can’t remember the last time that she’d asked for him to accompany her _anywhere_ , least of all just to pop down to the market. It wasn’t as if they didn’t get along or generally avoided each other, their lives just didn’t intersect very often, except when inside the Shelby house itself.

“I,” he takes a moment to pause, still too tired to be able to answer Polly’s challenging gaze with one of his own. She’s clearly got something on her mind that’s bigger than just going to pick up food, and there’s only really one thing that he can think of that it could be. And he’s not ready for that conversation, not with come crusted on his stomach and only an hour or two of sleep. “I’ve got things to do today, Polly.”

“Yes, you do.” She nods at him, turning on her heels. “You’ve got to come to the market. Get yourself presentable. We’re leaving soon.” And with that, she disappears down the stairs, Tommy staring down after her. He stands in his doorway considering his potential actions. He could refuse her, but even in his head he can’t come up with a way to say it without coming across as a petulant child. He turns his head towards Alfie’s shut door, thinks about waking him up, but it wouldn’t accomplish anything. It wasn’t as if he could insist on him coming with them as well, as it would likely just confirm his aunt’s suspicions about their relationship. 

Tommy scoffs quietly to himself. Their relationship? He might have been getting a bit ahead of himself. And so, as much as he’d like to slip into Alfie’s room and kiss him into gradual consciousness, he decides against it, following Polly down the stairs to fetch some water so he can have a bit of a wash. He can’t do anything about his state of exhaustion, but he can at least clean himself up a bit. 

*

Half an hour later, he’s clean and dressed, at Polly’s side as they walk down the road in the direction of the markets. He’d done all that he could to make himself presentable; he’d washed himself, combed his hair, but the hot summer day makes his clothes stick unpleasantly to his skin, and he hadn’t been able to do anything at all about the dark bruises under his eyes that broadcast his sleeplessness. 

Polly is quiet, but that’s not all that unusual. Tommy’s always rather liked Polly for it, couldn’t help but admire the woman for how she could sit comfortably in silence. It’s something that didn’t come naturally to him, every extended run of silence would descend on him and it would feel as if there were a hidden well of words that would come rushing out to meet him. The one and only time that he’d asked her about it, she’d said something to the effect of, _if you haven’t anything worthwhile to say, why say it at all?_ He’d understood it to be more than just something that adults would tell those who were younger than them. Over the years, he’d grown used to her being quiet, because for as many times as she could keep her lips sealed, he also knew her to be capable of a great amount of words. Her ability to find the distinction between when she should speak and when she should not was a marked sign of her intelligence, one that he had always hoped in vain to emulate. One day, he’s sure that he’d manage to be half as good as her. 

And so they walk without talking, Tommy ever her pupil as they make their way through dirty Birmingham streets. People tip their hats at Polly as they see her, the ghost of the Peaky Blinders shadowing them everywhere they go. Tommy wonders sometimes about how Polly feels about it— the reverence, at least. Polly fights tooth and nail to keep John out of things, to give Tommy the support to continue staying out, but at the end of the day, she has never outright denounced her brother’s gang. Tommy doesn’t understand the area’s affection for them, can’t comprehend why they would root for the gang instead of vilifying them. Tommy is of the personal belief that the Peaky’s should and could be doing a lot more in support of the community. But it wasn’t his place. 

The smell of the marketplace tinges the air from streets away, the scent of blood, sweaty bodies and dirt. His mother used to drag him with her when she went, back when he was barely tall enough to see over the tops of the stalls. He’d been frightened as a child, of all the bustle and of the way people talk to each other, haggling with angry voices as merchants and customers both try their hardest to cheat the other. His mother would just tuck him in closer to her skirts, smoothing at his hair with careful fingers. 

Polly leads him into the market, still not saying anything. They weave through the streets, through the carts and stalls, hastily set up, or having been there for years. This particular market had popped up around the butcher, lending a distinctively metallic smell to the entire area. A man selling hats calls out to Tommy, but backs off at a sharp look from Polly. They end up in front of a stall selling fresh fruit, brilliantly coloured produce stuffed onto every available surface, into every nook and cranny. Tommy inhales as they approach, to see if he could smell the sweet fruit over the carnage from the butcher’s next door. He could not. Beside him, Polly lights up a cigarette as he drifts a lazy hand over the produce.

“I’ve spoken with your father.”

A jolt of ice slips through his veins. This hadn’t been what he’d expected her to say. 

“He thinks it’s about time for you to become more involved in the business side of things.” Polly takes a long drag of her cigarette, staring down at the produce before her. She sounds effortlessly casual, or maybe just a thousand miles away. The woman running the stall glances nervously between the two of them, as if they’d start shooting for overcharging them a bushel of apples. Polly continues on, likely aware of the girl’s nervousness, but uncaring. “He says John’s almost ready for it, and there’s no reason to not involve you as well.”

Tommy keeps his body carefully still. This definitely isn’t what he’d expected her to talk to him about. For one thing, he doesn’t know why it’s Polly talking to him, and not his father himself. The man’s never had an issue with bringing up things like this. In fact, at least twice a year the man goes on the warpath about Tommy’s lack of participation. It’s almost always just a verbal rampage, which is intimidating in itself, but as the years have gone on, it’s become something for him to shout about in the semi-frequent Shelby father and son “boxing matches” (which in itself is a poor excuse for Arthur Sr. to thrash them a bit without being too serious). Tommy’s often been able to slip out of these matches, but the past few times he hadn’t— once because their father had been particularly angry with him, for whatever reason, and once because the man had said he’d bring John into the fight instead if Tommy left. Arthur Sr. would work out his aggression for his son’s alleged cowardice the only way he knew how, and would leave Tommy black and blue with a few bruised ribs. The last time, his brothers had had to pull Arthur Sr. off of him, in fear that he’d cave in his skull. Tommy was mainly used to it, everyone he knew had a father who was a bastard; the abject poverty and rough lives of Birmingham combined with too much drink did not make for kind men. He’d learnt over the years, that sometimes his father wouldn’t soften his blows, and that it was just something that he’d have to live with. 

So there’s really no reason for Polly to be talking about this. Perhaps she’s trying to warn him about it, because Arthur bringing it up with her likely heralded a boxing match occuring in the near future. It was a shame, the last match hadn’t been too far in the past. He can still vividly remember trying to hide his face as he went on with his life afterward, the shame of his father beating bruises on skin following him everywhere he went.

Tommy reaches forward, picks up a pale little apple, more yellow than anything else. He wants to do something with his hands, and he still hasn’t got any cigarettes. He’ll pick some up today. He keeps his voice down, more concerned about the busy company of the market than she. “Alright. And you’re telling me this, because…?” 

Polly’s watching him twist the apple around, switching it from hand to hand. “Because this time, he’s dead serious, Thomas. And I wanted to talk to you about it first as this time I thought you’d say yes.”

She thought he’d say yes? Tommy looks up at her now, staring, trying to understand. Why on earth would he agree to join the Peaky Blinders, after years of putting it off? They were his family, but they were still a gang of cutthroats that he had no intention of joining up with. The work was barely controlled brutality, nothing he was good at. His hands weren’t meant for holding guns nor razors. The only thing that had changed since the last time had been—

Alfie. 

The only difference between this time, and the last time Arthur had insisted that he become more involved with the Peaky’s is that Alfie is now an honorary member. As they often do when turning to the man, his thoughts become softer, tinged in a rose haze, despite the company. He thinks about that, the opportunistic part of his brain immediately thinking about how they’d be able to spend more time together, if they were working on the same things, if he weren’t down at Charlie’s yard every day of his life, shovelling shit. Plus, he cannot lie to himself and say that he isn’t a little curious about what it’d be like to see Alfie in that sort of light, to see the man in action. He’s not an idiot, he knows Peaky business, when not cutting or beating, tends to be mostly just standing around in the right locations and looking tough, but there’s an aching, crawling part of him that would very much like to see exactly what broad-shouldered, strong Alfie is capable of. He’s not a violent man, doesn’t enjoy it the same way other men seem to, but the thought of seeing Alfie like that sends an illicit thrill through him, thinking of the man’s knuckles, split and bleeding. And it wasn’t as if Tommy would really even be in any danger, if he were a real Peaky. He’d probably just have to sit in on more meetings. 

Tommy bites the inside of his cheek, having missed the obvious conclusion as his brain always spins away from him when thinking about Alfie. The only thing that had changed had been the other man. Polly was bringing it up, because she knew that Tommy now had an extra incentive to join. Polly knew. Polly must know. 

He understands why Polly had brought him away from the house for this. He wishes that she’d have brought them somewhere a bit less busy, but it was better than home. 

“Would it be the worst thing in the world?” Tommy asks, weighing every word carefully. He can’t ask her what he wants to directly, can’t dare in the crowd. 

“Yes, and no,” Polly replies, coolly, and she’s meeting his eyes now. Ever pragmatic. “You’re not stupid, Thomas. We all know you’d be good at the business, and they need your help. That’s not the issue, not anymore.” She pauses, for just a breath, lowering her voice, urgently. “But your father will cut you if he finds out, and he will, if you keep parading about as you have been.”

He feels the heat rising in his cheeks, though he tries not to let it show. Not when there’s so many people here, so many people watching both of them. He puts the apple back in its place, stepping away, his heart in his throat. There’s no mistaking Polly’s words, no way to misinterpret what she’s said. He doesn’t know exactly how to feel about it. He’d suspected that she knew, and he’d suspected that she wouldn’t approve, but there was something different about the confirmation of it. He can still look at her and know that she has his safety in mind, knows that she’s not being deliberately cruel about it, but her judgement still cuts deeply. 

In the blue light of morning, dragged from his bed without sleep, he’d almost forgotten that being with Alfie was almost an impossibility. That it was something he should be ashamed about. That it was something he could get killed for, that people would hate him for. It didn’t mean that he was changing his mind about it, because he wasn’t, he _couldn’t,_ not when he was so close to having what he wanted. He remembers now, surrounded by strangers in the place he grew up hiding in his mum’s skirts. It still feels like he’s hiding.

They hadn’t been parading anything around, knew that Polly was just more perceptive than the rest of the Shelby’s, but his mind turned back and considered the look of concern on Freddie’s face as Alfie had guided him out of the Garrison the night before. Had Freddie noticed it as well? How many hints had he let slip, how many people had stared after them with a furrowed brow and thought to themselves, _hm, that’s a bit funny._

He’s in the middle of the crowd, so he’s not going to do something as foolish as openly panic. He clenches his teeth together, jaw going tight, but he’s outwardly still. Polly knows, and Polly doesn’t approve, and they’re going to be caught and they’re going to end up in the cut. His body is telling him that he has to leave, but he can’t tell in which direction it wants to flee to. He curses himself silently, for being so prone to this, to this gripping uncertainty that takes hold of him and tells him to flee. Part of him wants to get on a horse and ride far, far away, going somewhere that no one will ever be able to find him. Part of him wants to scream, right where he’s standing, wants to stare up at the sky and scream, and scream, and scream, because it’s not fair, is it? It’s not fair that he’d have two days to be happy, two days where he could forget that the world wouldn’t actively despise him, and all he was. The girl at her fruit stall is giving him a funny look, because he probably looks like he wants to explode, to light himself and the entire market on fire. He feels like he could do it. 

“Thomas,” Polly says, interrupting his whirling thoughts. Her voice is decidedly softer now, and she steps forward, closing in on him. He looks up at her, eyes a bit wild, waiting for her to continue, for her to tell him something that will put him at ease, that will calm him down, because when faced with Polly’s gentle voice he is a child again wielding sticks as swords and scraping his knees crawling after Arthur, but she simply stares back. He’s not a child anymore, but he’s still only 19. The look on her face is undeniably pity, and Tommy doesn’t need that, does he?

“I have to go.” He says, stiffly. He draws himself up, glancing around at the market around him. It was almost strange to see people continuing on with their lives around him, uncaring about his life, about his problems. He can’t tell if that’s comforting or not. “And I’m not joining the fucking Blinders, alright?”

“Tommy,” Polly repeats, but he’s already leaving, already weaving and ducking through the crowd. Polly does not follow after him. He has himself together enough to remember his cigarettes, quickly buying a pack off of one of the vendors standing at the edge of the market. He’s lighting one up the moment it’s in his possession, fingers shaking as he holds the match up to his mouth. It’s still morning, had barely been half an hour since he’d left with Polly, so he just goes home. He’s unsure of his plan as he strides back inside, sucking down nicotine with shaking fingers, as if it had personally wronged him. The girl taking care of Finn is standing in the doorway to the kitchen as he enters the house, looks startled as he storms past, ignoring her completely in his ascent up the stairs. He can’t hear anyone else in the house, but he can’t hear much of anything over the ringing in his ears, the sound of his breath in his chest. He climbs the final few steps to the top floor, not bothering to hesitate for a single second as he slips into Alfie’s bedroom.

The room is dark, only illuminated by the light coming in from the doorway, but Tommy can see that Alfie is still in bed, stirring at Tommy’s abrupt arrival. He shuts the door tightly behind him, leaving them in darkness. 

“Tommy?” Alfie mumbles, blearily. Tommy can only just see the outline of the man sitting up, and he wastes no further time before he snubs out his cigarette directly onto the end table and throws himself on the bed. He collapses on top of Alfie, the man beneath him releasing a soft grunt as he takes Tommy’s weight, arms coming up automatically to pull him into an embrace. Tommy closes his eyes, a sense of relief flooding through him, starved for the man’s touch even though it’s only been a handful of hours since they parted. Their chests are pressed together, solid flesh against flesh, only separated by fabric. It feels nice. “Tommy,” Alfie says again, voice sounding more alert, but also more confused. “What are you doing here?”

Tommy fidgets a bit, arranging himself into a more comfortable position as they settle in against the other. He’s wedged himself under Alfie’s arm, face resting on his shoulder, just close enough to nuzzle into his neck, where Tommy had secreted away a love bite the night before. Alfie’s very warm, skin heated from sleep, and Tommy is overcome once again with the urge to wrap around the man like ivy. His head is still busy, even though his body is settling, heart calming from its frantic rhythm. Doesn’t know how to communicate his morning, unsure if he even wants to do so. He doesn’t know how the man would react, after all, to the news that someone knew about them. He chooses to not say anything about it. “Wanted to see you.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth, and he tries to hide it by pressing his lips to the man’s neck.

Alfie chuckles, seemingly despite himself. He can feel Alfie twisting his head to look towards the door, still a bit confused by Tommy’s behaviour. “Back for more already, eh? I know it was good, darling, but isn’t this a bit reckless?”

Tommy frowns against Alfie’s neck, his mood instantly darkening again. Doesn’t like being reminded of the risk associated with his actions. Especially doesn’t like it from Alfie, who wasn’t the type of person he would expect to be so caught up by things like that. Not when he was the one out there, flirting with him incessantly, feeling him up in busy pubs and pushing him into dark alleys.

He leverages himself up onto his hands, supporting himself as he hovers over the larger man. They can barely see each other, so he doesn’t think that he can see the cross look on his face, so he injects as much hostility into his voice as he can manage. “I can leave, if you’d like. If it’s too much trouble for you.”

Alfie scoffs, his own words heating up in response to Tommy’s. “Didn’t fucking say that, did I?” His hands, still holding onto Tommy’s sides, slide lower and tighten around his hips, not letting him escape. His breath smells horrid. “Just didn’t expect you ‘round this early, alright, treacle?”

Tommy continues his frowning. He’s not really angry with Alfie here, shouldn’t be taking his bad mood out on the other man, but he can’t help it, not now that it’s been introduced. It feels like an itch that he cannot scratch, something deep within his skin, that he’d have to claw through bone and sinew to reach. He begins twisting his body, sliding out from the man’s grasp. His voice is cold when he speaks. “No, you’re right. Think I’ll go.” 

Tommy’s out of the bed in an instant, fingers on the door handle before Alfie is even fully upright. “For fucks sake,” the older man swears under his breath, as Tommy swings the door open. Just before he can step through and leave, Alfie lays his large hand on the door, slamming it closed again. The sound will ring through the entire house, but neither of them are really paying any attention. While the door had been briefly open, Tommy had gotten a glimpse at Alfie’s face in the light, drawn and angry looking. Tommy twists the door handle again, but it’s firmly shut under Alfie’s weight. Alfie growls, “what the fuck’s the matter with you, eh?”

“Nothing,” Tommy spits, sulkily. He turns to his left, towards the wardrobe that he knows holds a candle on it. He can feel his hackles rising, his heart starting to pound, trapped there in a dark room. When he lights it, it does very little to calm his mood, casting long shadows across the room, illuminating only half of their faces. Alfie’s face looks sharper in this light, but it could be because he’s watching Tommy with clear frustration. He looks just as sleep deprived as Tommy feels, as if Tommy had awoken him from a very pleasant dream.

“‘S’not nothing, is it?” Alfie presses in closer, snatching the box of matches that Tommy had used to light the candle and tossing it against the wall behind the wardrobe. It’s the box he’d stolen for Tommy the night before, conjuring brief memories of the night with it as he discards it so carelessly over his shoulder. Alfie grabs at his empty hand, using it to pull him in closer as he simultaneously crowds Tommy against the door. “You’re in a proper fucking mood. And you’ve disrupted my sleep with your tantrum. So tell me what’s happened to make you act like such a child when you were previously purring in my arms, and maybe we can fucking address it. How’s that sound, sweetheart?”

Tommy bristles, resentful at being called a child, doing his best to resist his natural reaction to either pout or to punch Alfie. He’s just sleep deprived, he tells himself, he’s just freaking out a bit at his conversation with Polly, but he finds that he can’t part his lips and tell the older man that. He’s prickly when he feels cornered, and here he is, being pressed into one, both literally and metaphorically. It’s then that Alfie wedges his knee in between his thighs, spreading them so he can move even closer into him. His body suddenly feels almost overwhelmingly hot, Tommy’s mouth falling open in a soft gasp as Alfie’s thigh nudges his groin. _Oh._ The fight starts to drain out of him.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Tommy repeats, voice faltering a bit at the look in Alfie’s eyes. His heart is racing, chest rapidly rising and falling with his breath. He licks his suddenly very dry lips, their faces barely an inch apart, and Alfie’s eyes are dark and unamused. He isn’t looking at Tommy like he usually does, isn’t looking at him like he’s intrigued or pleased or appreciative of what he sees. Tommy is brought back to that first morning, of Alfie’s sharp petulance in the kitchen. He remembers that Alfie is a human being that can suffer from bad moods as much as Tommy does.

“Hm,” he growls, but he doesn’t come any nearer, doesn’t close the gap between their mouths even though Tommy’s gradually melting into him, unexpectedly aroused by Alfie’s irritation and that strong thigh between his legs. “See Thomas, I don’t think I believe you. And if you’re not going to tell me…” Alfie trails off and suddenly steps away, putting a foot of space between them. Tommy sags forward, gone cold, his body aching to be touched again by the other man. 

“What?” Tommy manages to get out, voice sounding stupid, confused. Alfie’s never pulled away like this. He reaches his hands out, taking the initiative to chase after him, but Alfie doesn’t let him back easily. Every time Tommy’s fingers wrap around his arm, his shoulder, the back of his neck, Alfie’s there to push him away again, rejecting him repeatedly, face gone stony. Tommy is undeterred, grabbing with more urgency, almost frantic, until Alfie, with a huff of anger, snatches up his wrists, squeezing tight. 

“Tommy,” he hisses, delicate bones of Tommy’s wrists smarting in his grasp, but neither of them pay it any mind. “You’re an adult, aren’t you? Yeah? I’ve got no time for these fucking games. Either tell me what’s bothering you, or get the fuck out.”

“Thought you didn’t want me to leave,” Tommy jerks his head towards the closed door, where Alfie had blocked his exit. This is not how he’d wanted this day to go, not what he’d thought would happen. 

“That was before I knew you’d behave like a child. I’ve got no interest in it, no desire to sit here and hold your hand when all I’m asking you to do, yeah, is open your mouth.”

Tommy inhales, not missing the way that Alfie’s eyes flicker down as he speaks, as if he cannot mention Tommy’s mouth without also looking at it. He licks his lips again, revelling in the way he knows the man desires him, regardless of how he might be acting now. Slowly, a smirk begins to grow on his face. “You want me to open my mouth?” Tommy murmurs, using Alfie’s hands on his wrists to his advantage, easing in closer to him. His earlier burst of anger, of surliness has not dissipated entirely; instead, it has morphed itself into something slowly simmering in his hips, pushing him forward.

Alfie surveys him, expression shifting to something more uncertain. “Fucking hell,” he’s still eyeing Tommy, still watching his every movement. His grip on Tommy’s wrists loosens slightly, thumbs coming to stroke the protruding bone on the inside of the wrist, over his blue veins. “Can’t keep up with your moods. Do you want to fight me or fuck me?”

Tommy shrugs, demurely, though Alfie’s crassness still makes him feel like blushing. He doesn’t have an answer to that. He doesn’t even know, just knows that his brain gets a bit fuzzy when Alfie’s hands are on him, skin burns a little hotter. Instead, he just sidles in closer, smile growing when Alfie doesn’t stop him. “Why don’t you convince me?”

“Convince you?” Alfie releases Tommy’s right wrist, hand snaking down to grip once more at Tommy’s hip. They’re fully pressed together again. “To what? Talk to me? To tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Tommy just shrugs again. To put his point across, he keeps his mouth shut.

“Hm,” Alfie growls, thoughtfully. The hand on his hip squeezes tight, then Alfie releases him altogether. There’s still a spark of irritation in his eyes, but he seems to put it aside. “For the record, I do not approve of this attitude regarding communication, alright? But seeing as you do look like you need a good cheering up, I will oblige, this once.” With that, Alfie slowly folds himself in half, dropping to his knees as he guides Tommy to lean against the wall. The sight of the older man kneeling before him knocks all coherent thought out of Tommy’s head; everything, from his father, to Polly, to his sleeplessness fades into the background, completely irrelevant, unimportant. He hits the wall a bit rough, but that’s more due to his brainless clumsiness than the other man’s doing.

“Right,” Alfie continues on, satisfied at having Tommy backed against the wall. He makes quick work of the clips of his suspenders and the trousers underneath, pulling them off with a confident efficiency that Tommy’s never experienced with a partner. He does it with practiced ease, and Tommy wonders, not for the first time, as to Alfie’s previous sexual partners. It’s obvious now, as it had been the night before, that Alfie knew what he was doing when it came to the handling of other men’s genitals. It makes him feel a little insane, a little angry, but that’s about how he felt to begin with, anyways. “Now, sweetheart, I’m not sure how many blowjobs you have received in your life, but I’d like you to do whatever feels natural to you, yeah? Though I will find it quite rude if you’re the type to thrash and buck about.”

“I’ve gotten a fucking—” Tommy’s complaint gets lost somewhere along the way as Alfie tucks down the waistband of his pants and takes his already half-hard cock gently into his mouth. Tommy bashes his head against the wall a bit, hips jerking automatically as his cockhead is enveloped behind Alfie’s beautiful lips. He makes a sort of squeaking noise, shoulders slumping down, his entire body curving forward in reaction. Alfie flashes him a warning look, because he’s _just said_ not to be rude about it, and Tommy makes a pointed effort to keep his hips from any other traitorous responding. It’s difficult, because Alfie’s mouth feels _so good_ , blood very quickly filling his cock to full hardness.

“Alfie,” he manages to grunt, palms flat against the wall behind him, bracing himself. Alfie hums encouragingly at that, sending shockwaves up Tommy’s spine at the sensation. He has gotten a blowjob before, again, _not a virgin_ , but as with everything else with Alfie, it feels like it’s the first time. Alfie’s head bobs between his legs almost cheerfully, responding to all of the soft noises that Tommy can’t help but let out with pleased noises of his own, as if he’s getting pleasure just hearing Tommy enjoying himself. The older man pulls back, one hand wrapped around the base of Tommy’s cock with a firm grip, tapping the head on his tongue in a way that almost makes Tommy choke. “Alfie,” he groans again, feeling absolutely ruined at the display.

Alfie laughs softly, licking off excess saliva from his shaft. “Feel free to keep saying my name, petal. But do us a favour, spread your legs a bit further?” Tommy blinks down at him, but does what he’s asked, shimmying his feet out, not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough that he’s feeling strangely bared open for the man. He has to step fully out of his trousers to do so, Alfie assisting with his free hand as he nods, approvingly. He keeps up the pressure on Tommy’s dick, starting to stroke it, absent-mindedly. “That’s it, love. You listen so well when you’re not hissing like a kitten.”

Tommy does his best scowl, which is difficult to do when your cock is throbbing in someone’s hand. “‘M not a kitten.”

“Oh, yes you are.” Alfie switches the hand stroking him, popping the index finger on his right hand into his mouth. Tommy can see the movements of his tongue in his mouth, finger pressing up against his cheeks, almost hidden by his beard. 

Tommy’s heart stutters. “What are you doing?” The question is flat, more a statement than anything. 

“Me?” Alfie asks, as if Tommy had asked him about the weather, or about what he thought Uncle Charlie’s favourite colour was. He removes the finger from his mouth to speak, leaving it just hovering outside. “I am lubricating my finger. Getting it nice and wet.”

“Why?” Tommy grits out, flinching, as Alfie uses his other hand to rub his palm over the head of his dick. He thinks he might be close, but he can’t quite tell anymore, not with all of his attention being diverted to that finger near Alfie’s lips.

Alfie glances up at him, with a look that says, _don’t be daft_ , then pops the finger back in his mouth. Tommy looks up at the ceiling, head dully thudding against the wall behind him as he clenches his eyes shut. So this is happening, then, he thinks to himself, heart starting to hammer in his chest once again. He tries to remember what Alfie’d said to him the day before, what he’d told him about fingers and fucking, but it feels like an entire lifetime ago. If Alfie hadn’t still been stroking his cock, his bubbling nerves might have taken his erection, but Alfie’s grip is sure, encouraging. Alfie knows what he’s doing, he reminds himself, and he can distinctly remember something about trying to see if he likes it. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll just tell Alfie to stop, and Tommy trusts Alfie enough to believe that that’ll be the end of it.

“You alright up there?” Alfie’s finished with his finger when Tommy looks back down, is staring up at him with a slightly skeptical expression. “I can just keep blowing you, if you’d like.” He mouths at the side of his shaft, as if to emphasize his point.

“No, it’s okay.” Tommy nods his head, trying to look more put together than he currently feels.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Alright,” Alfie cracks a wry smile, turning back down to look at what he’s working with. “I mean, I’m going to keep blowing you, either way. Don’t you worry your pretty head about that.”

He sticks to his word, takes Tommy back into the wet heat of his mouth. Tommy thinks that slick little noises that escape his tight lips might be one of his favourite parts about all of this. He can already tell he’ll be thinking of them when he’s alone in bed, the sound of a tongue working him over, of the interested hums and barely audible moans. Tommy’s eyes flutter shut, forgetting altogether about the promise of Alfie’s waiting finger. Forgets until, of course, he feels a hand venturing back. It’s not the wet finger, but a dry one, tracing its way around his balls, then over the sensitive skin just behind them. Tommy sucks in a breath, and the finger pauses momentarily, then continues on its journey, pressing down on his perineum. Tommy jolts from it, and Alfie makes another disciplinary noise, reminding Tommy that he’s very much in the man’s throat, and he can’t be doing things like jolting forward. He couldn’t help it, something about being touched there makes his entire body tense up and _clench_ , which is not something he’s ever really had the chance to notice before now. 

Alfie pulls off of him for a second time, and Tommy responds with an anguished groan at the loss. “Sorry,” Alfie smirks, but he’s looking over his shoulder, back towards the bed. “Maybe you shouldn’t be standing for this.”

“Alfie,” Tommy snarls, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through his system. “Just fucking do it.”

The man snorts. “Alright, kitten, enough hissing. Have it your way. It might feel a bit strange, but this is just a test, right? We’ll try it out, but if you don’t like it—”

“Alfie!”

“Alright, alright!” He snickers, which is decidedly not sexy, but does as he’s told, which is. He takes Tommy back into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the tip as he reaches between his thighs, this time with purpose. He uses his correct finger this time, wet and wriggling, rough pad of his fingertip just slightly pressing Tommy’s untouched hole. He applies a bit of pressure, but does not breach him, just gives Tommy a taste for the feel of it, to prepare himself for what comes next. Tommy’s brain is blank, every molecule of him on edge and waiting. Then, slowly, he presses in.

It… doesn’t hurt. Alfie’s digit has barely slipped in, not even to the first bend of the finger, doesn’t feel like much of anything except a foreign intrusion. A very small one.

Below him, Alfie makes a noise that sounds like a question, inquiring. “Well?” He manages to get out around the cock in his mouth, seemingly unwilling to part from him again. 

Experimentally, Tommy squeezes his muscles around Alfie’s fingertip. It sure is in there. He still doesn’t know how he feels about that. “Feels like you’ve got a bit of your finger in my arse.”

Alfie coughs out a laugh, feels strange around his dick. Says something that sounds a bit like, “very astute,” but Tommy’s got a finger in his bum, so he can say whatever obvious statements that he’d like. The finger slithers a bit deeper inside of him, pressing against the muscle, probing gently at his walls. That feels more substantial, feels like Alfie’s searching inside of him, though for what, Tommy’s got no clue. 

As Alfie slides his finger further and further inside of him, he doubles down on the blowjob. His mouth, still so wet and nice, takes him into the back of his throat, bobbing now like a man on a mission, determined to make Tommy’s first fingering experience to be a good one. Alfie’s finger is thick and insistent, doesn’t let itself be forgotten in the newfound euphoria Tommy’s finding in Alfie’s mouth, and it doesn’t... feel bad. Just a bit strange. His knees are shaking a bit, and Tommy wishes he’d let Alfie bring him to the bed for this. The finger moving inside of him is still searching, Tommy clenching around it as he tries to focus on not coming, and the combination of Alfie’s curious finger and his throat is sending sparks of electricity through his pelvis, and he suddenly knows he’s about reached his limit. It’s not like the finger doesn’t feel good, after all— it’s an strange and incessant reminder that it’s _Alfie’s_ finger, that it’s _Alfie_ who has his hands on him, in him, _Alfie_ who wants him to try this because eventually, Alfie wants to _fuck_ him.

Tommy’s eyes are barely open, but they are enough to see Alfie glance up at him, a devilish expression on his face, visible even through his slightly teary eyes. Then, very deliberately, as if he’s been waiting all this time to do so, he moves his finger in just a way, curling up, and Tommy thinks, _oh, oh, that’s what he’s been looking for._ He can’t properly describe the sensation, that same pressure that he’d imagined that originates inside of him, makes him tremble, makes his eyelids flutter, and every other bit of pleasure just that much more overwhelming. And Alfie’s barely doing anything, is barely pressing, and Tommy knows instinctively that if he pressed harder, if he was using something bigger, that it would feel _good_. He gasps, loud and breathy, hands scrabbling for purchase on Alfie’s shoulders, trying not to lose his balance as his body hurtles full speed towards an impossible orgasm. “Alfie,” he manages to choke out, more a whine than anything else, squeezing tight with his fingers and with the muscles in his arse. Alfie just keeps eye contact, pulling off slightly, so he’s not coming directly down his throat, and keeps up the curling and wiggling of his dastardly finger, and Tommy’s gone. He shudders through it, remains composed enough to ensure that he doesn’t collapse as Alfie sucks him down, swallowing prettily around him. 

“Wow,” Tommy mumbles, when he’s finally recovered the gift of speech. Alfie’s already retreated a bit, is sitting back on his knees, hands innocently at his side. “That was. Wow.”

“You’re going to give me a complex, you know, if you keep on behaving as if I’ve delivered you through your pearly gates every time I lay my hands on you.”

Tommy feels himself flush at that, though his cheeks are already pink from orgasm. Maybe he won’t be able to tell. “Can’t help it,” he says, unexpectedly shy. He’s still half standing, feeling rather wobbly. 

Something soft passes behind Alfie’s eyes. “It’s alright. Quite like it, don’t I? C’mere then, you silly boy, sit down, before you take a tumble.”

He listens to Alfie easily, melting down the wall until he’s in a puddle on the floor in front of the man. He feels so boneless, relaxed, all of his earlier stress gone. And Alfie’s looking at him, with an expression Tommy can identify as fond, and it makes him feel warm and wanted. It’s as if they’d never been angry with the other, foul moods evaporated up into the air. He blinks as he settles, suddenly remembering his manners. He lifts a hand, gesturing to Alfie’s lap. “Do you want me to…?”

“Nah,” Alfie’s eyes roam over him, desire swirling up once more. He reaches down into his sleep pants, loose enough that Tommy can imagine every detail just from the movement through the fabric. “You stay right where you are, darling, that’s it. Look at me just like that. Tell me how that was for you.”

“Why?” Tommy asks, lips curling up, but he does as asked, keeps looking at him with slightly hooded eyes. “You want to hear that I liked it?”

“I want to hear the truth,” Alfie shrugs his shoulders slightly, looking remarkably casual for someone with their hand stroking their cock. “Right, ‘cause I know you liked it. I’ve got eyes, yeah, and I’ve still got your taste in my mouth, petal.”

Tommy’s cock gives a valiant twitch, but stubbornly continues softening. “I did like it,” he admits, because it’s in his best interest, and he has no reason to lie. “I liked what you did with your finger. Is that what it’s going to feel like when you fuck me?”

Alfie groans, hand speeding up below his pants. “Fucking hope it’ll feel bigger than a finger, fuck.”

Tommy nods, sagely. “Well, either way. Think I’d let you give it a try.”

“Fuck,” Alfie reaches a hand out, grabs at Tommy’s jaw, thumb slipping between his lips. He certainly has a fondness for reaching out and grabbing hold of his face, he’d done it the night before. Tommy bows his head, sucking at it lightly, keeping his eyes locked on Alfie’s. “Can’t fucking wait to have you. Have you squirming around on my cock. Fuck, your lips, Tommy. You’re so fucking—”

Alfie’s face screws up, body goes taut, obviously coming in his pants. Tommy wishes he could see, wishes Alfie’d taken his clothes off so he could see his fat cockhead, red between his fingers as he comes. The thought comes as a surprise to him, something explicitly sexual, beyond a simple desire to touch and be touched by Alfie, beyond wanting to kiss his lovely mouth for hours on end. And he’s wanted many things in his life, wanted things from many different people, but this is the first time he’s wanted someone’s _cock_. The thought of Alfie’s cock, spurting out come, almost floors him. It’s a heady, almost overwhelming feeling, one that makes his mouth water and would get his libido to stutter to a start again if he didn’t actively push down the urge. They’d have time later. It was still morning. Alfie probably had things to do. 

He settles for a kiss, waiting a polite amount of time for Alfie to work through his orgasm before he’s clamoring forward, climbing up into his lap. It’s awkward and clumsy, because Alfie’s on his knees, and Tommy slides right down him, until he’s on his knees too, wrapping his arms back around the man’s shoulders. Tommy loves his fucking shoulders. He sighs happily as he gets himself adjusted, as Alfie comes to life beneath him, his own hands pulling at Tommy’s waist and they press their lips together. Tommy kisses him with everything he has, trying to kiss the apology for his earlier behaviour into the other man’s mouth, trying to communicate his weird morning and his satisfaction with their previous night. And he’s still naked from the waist down, so he can feel Alfie pressing gingerly against him, can feel the beginnings of a wet spot in the fabric of the man’s pants.

Alfie pulls away first, but keeps Tommy tucked in close to him. “Before, when you said, ‘either way’...”

Tommy blinks. “What?”

Alfie’s only an inch away from his face, and he’s smiling again. His voice is sly, teasing, so Tommy knows that he doesn’t have to take this too seriously. “You asked if when I fuck you it’ll feel like a finger. Feeling quite hurt about that, I told you it’d bloody well feel bigger than a finger, and you said, ‘either way’.” He makes a face for that last part, fluttering his eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion, which Tommy can only assume is meant to imitate him. 

“And?”

“And I want to know what you mean by that!” Alfie splutters, leaning back and away from Tommy, but he’s grinning now in earnest. “I mean, you’ve seen what I’m working with, right? You’ve seen my cock.”

Tommy can’t help the smile growing on his face. “Still don’t see what you’re on about.”

“What I’m on about? My cock is a great deal larger than my finger, is what I’m on about! It’s not ‘either way’, it’s the simple fucking fact of the matter!”

“A great deal larger?” Tommy raises his eyebrows, biting at his lower lip at the answering expression on Alfie’s face, shocked and offended. “Not so sure about a _great_ deal…”

Alfie gapes at him. Tommy blinks away the memory of Alfie’s open mouth taking in his cock. Knows that it’s one he’ll cherish fondly. “Thomas. Shelby. Were I not the perfect gentleman that we all know that I am, right, I’d have you over my fucking lap and I’d slap a bit of sense into that bottom of yours.”

“Do you promise?”

Alfie turns his head towards the ceiling, as if consulting a higher power. “What sort of monster have I created?” He still tugs Tommy back in close to him, lips swollen against Tommy’s, grip on his hips tight. 

*

They make out on Alfie’s bed for a bit longer, until Tommy’s hard and gasping again, and Alfie leaves him with a spectacular case of blue balls, claiming that he needs to leave right then, at that very second. Tommy doesn’t believe him, hates him, wants to throttle his neck, but lets him leave without causing any grievous bodily harm. And if Tommy just goes back to his own room and brings himself off to thoughts of Alfie, well, no one needs to know that. Alfie’s, relatively speaking, quick departure has one bonus, however; in the rush of skin against skin, Alfie hadn’t ended up asking what was bothering him that morning. Tommy doesn’t know if that had been a deliberate choice, or if he’d simply forgotten, but he’s glad for the opportunity to not talk about it. 

When he eventually makes his way back downstairs, it’s early afternoon. He makes himself a cup of tea, feels suddenly very alone in the empty house. No one is here, not even Finn and the nanny, everyone out enjoying the meagre warmth of the beginning of a Birmingham summer, or are hard at work (again, relatively speaking). 

He stares into his cup of tea, a forlorn feeling twisting inside him as he watches the steam rising up, moisture clinging to his face. It’d been a long and confusing few days, and it weighed on him. Just the simple fact of his mood swings this morning was proof enough of that. What with Alfie, and the impending sense of doom that lurked constantly over his shoulders whenever he remembered himself, generally about a half an hour after he’s left Alfie’s side. Being physically with the man was almost easy, simple; all coherent thought was wiped quickly out of his brain the millisecond that Alfie had his hands on him. It was only after he’s left that it really starts to set in. And now Polly knows. Couldn’t even make it a full week before she’s poked her way in. He wants to be resentful of his aunt, but can’t bring himself to truly do it, knows it’s not her fault. He knows that she’s got his best interests at heart. He knows that, in a very objective, logical way. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t make him want to cower and hide whenever he thinks about it.

And now, the news that his father would be trying yet again to pull him into the Blinders. With John growing older, it had always been an inevitability that he’d try again, but it doesn’t make the news anymore welcoming. And there’s a feeling deep in Tommy’s gut that tells him that Polly was right. That if he joined, that if he finally relented and agreed to it, that his dad would find out. He doesn’t know how he’s so certain of it, but he is. Joining the Blinders was half a death sentence in itself, and a full one, once he considers his father’s watchful eyes on him and Alfie.

He sighs, gloomily, just as John bursts through the front door. He’s got a cheery jump to his step, and Tommy resents his happiness immediately and immensely.

“Hullo,” John chirps, having nearly run right past him in the doorway, has to come to a skidding stop to address him. “I’ve been looking for you!”

“Why?” Tommy asks, immediately suspicious. He peers with narrowed eyes over his tea, not even halfway finished. 

“Relax a bit, Tommy, c’mon.” John throws himself in one of the chairs to his right, grinning. He’s chewing on a toothpick, which makes Tommy frown even more, because all he can hear in the quiet room is the boy’s enthusiastic chewing. “Been with Arthur, we’ve both been looking. Where’ve you been, then? Couldn’t find you this morning, weren’t in your room, weren’t at Charlie’s yard.”

Tommy resists the urge to flush slightly. The idea that Arthur and John both had been looking for him in his room, on that particular morning, puts his body on edge. He’s lucky that it had been Polly who’d woken him that morning, because he doubted that Arthur or John would have knocked, and he’d have had an embarrassing explanation to give as to the state of himself, and of his room. “Was out with Polly. Not that I need to check in with you two. What’s Arthur want, then?”

“I dunno.” John smiles, eyes sparkling bright. Tommy furrows his eyebrows further. He’s lying. But John, over the years, has proven himself to be one of the more stubborn and headstrong people he’s ever met, and he’s barely a man. He’d be better off going to find Arthur, then trying to coax whatever it is he’s hiding out of the boy.

He sighs, again, pushing his tea across the table for John to finish, which he does, eagerly. “Where’s Arthur, then?”

“At the yard,” John nods around the cup held to his lips. “Told him I’d find you and send you off to him.”

Tommy stands, reaching over to ruffle at John’s hair. “Alright, I’m off, then.” He pauses for a minute, looking over his younger brother, considering. “You alright? You were half dead from the drink last night.”

John flushes, immediately defensive. “Like you were any better.”

That prompts an actual bark of laughter out of Tommy. “Yeah? And you’d know, how exactly? There’s not a fucking chance you remember a single thing. You’re a poor drunk, John boy.”

John flips him the finger, now fully sulking. “Fuck off! Arthur’s waiting for you.”

Tommy grins at him as he, in much better spirits now, puts on his coat and departs.

*

Arthur’s waiting for him at the yard as he arrives. He’s standing near a pile of crates, smoking and talking animatedly to Charlie. Tommy can see Curly’s silhouette in the doorway to the stable, bustling around back and forth, arms full of some product. Arthur and Charlie turn as Tommy pushes open the gates with a screech, removing any possible hope of a quiet approach, not that it matters. He really has to put some oil on the hinges.

“Tommy!” Arthur calls out with a smile, but as Tommy gets close enough, he can recognize something strange flickering in his older brother’s eyes. He doesn’t look excited to be here, doesn’t look as if he has good news. Polly’s warning flashes in the back of his head, and he somehow knows, instinctively, that that is what this is about. Seems like everything’s coming to a head, abruptly and all at once. He longs for when he could get through to the end of his day without anything earth-shattering happening. 

“Hello, Arthur. Charlie.” Tommy nods at them as he comes to stand beside them, smiling at the two men brighter than Arthur’s smiling at him. No need to let on that he knows anything more than they might think he does, after all. 

Charlie immediately offers him a cigarette, which Tommy accepts, gratefully. He’s got his own, but he’s left his book of matches in the corner of Alfie’s room. “You alright, Tom? Heard you boys had quite the night.”

Arthur chuckles, “damn right we did.”

Tommy just nods, still smiling vaguely as he takes a drag of cigarette, newly lit by his uncle. He had a spectacular night, but he’s not about to say anything about it to either of the other two. “John said you were looking for me?”

“Er, right.” Arthur shuffles his feet, giving Charlie a significant look. The older man just nods back at him, retreating back over to where Curly’s still bustling around the stables. Tommy watches him go, a dull feeling coming over him. He’s actually going to do it, then. “I, er. How’ve you been, Tom?”

“Been alright, Arthur.” Tommy says, cautiously. He looks around the yard, at all the mud and the dirt. It’s still hot, but there are clouds now overhead, making everything look gloomy and gray. He can smell the horseshit from where they’re standing, slightly awkwardly in the middle of the yard. “And you?”

Arthur perks up a bit, looks as if he’d been hoping for that kind of opening. “Not too good, not too good. Things have been a bit… busy. With the business.”

Tommy nods, thinking over the last few days. Generally, his father and brother just drifted about, being vaguely threatening when necessary, but certainly never gave the impression of actual work. But the last few times he’d seen them, they’d been pouring over papers, or sitting in on meetings. “You’ve seemed busy.” And before he can stop himself, he babbles on, “is Solomons not working out?”

Arthur waves a dismissive hand, shaking his head, scrunching up the beginnings of what promises to one day be (in about 5 years or so) a very impressive moustache. “Nah, Solomons is doing fine. He’s doing alright, actually. Whatever he’d been doing down in London, it was worth it. Got a lot of good ideas.”

“You don’t know what he was doing in London?” Again, Tommy blurts out, unable to prevent himself from prying. 

“No.” Arthur considers that for a moment, eyes turning thoughtful. “Why? Do you?”

“No.” Tommy frowns, because it’s the truth. The man had had a finger in his bum just a few hours earlier, and he had no clear idea of what Alfie had been doing before coming to Birmingham. He knew he was in a gang, sure, but that could mean absolutely anything. Didn’t know what he did, didn’t know who he knew, what his interests were. Didn’t know if he had bloody parents, or if he had simply sprung from the earth, fully grown with a penchant for pretty boys with blue eyes. He truly did not know him any better than he had that first day, when Alfie had just been a man sharing his house, could list the things that he knew for certain about Alfie on one hand. The thought sits heavily in his stomach.

“Well, doesn’t fucking matter.” Arthur takes a drag of his own cigarette, seemingly unconcerned by the veritable stranger in their midst. Tommy’s still troubled by it, but he tries to push it down for now, until at least after this conversation. “Charlie says you’ve not been around as much lately.”

“I was here yesterday,” Tommy immediately replies, because he _was_ , and he’s a bit irritated that Charlie’s said that.

“You’ve not been here this morning, and the morning before yesterday. But that’s not the point, it’s not a bad thing, Tom.” Arthur shrugs, tossing his cigarette butt into the canal. “Thought you’d get bored of here ages ago, to be honest.”

“I’m not bored.” Tommy flashes his eyes warningly at his brother, who doesn’t look worried. He’s got that funny expression again, maybe a bit sad. Tommy thinks about defending his absences, but then changes his mind. He’d be able to explain he’d been with Polly that morning, but what was he going to say about the other one? That he’d been too busy frolicking around outside Birmingham with Alfie? “Then what’s the point?”

“The point is, I thought you’d be bored by now.”

Tommy frowns. “But I’m not.”

“Look, Tommy.” Arthur looks distinctly uncomfortable now, as if he really doesn’t wish to be talking about this. He cranes his neck around, surreptitiously checking to see if anyone is listening. No one is, no one has been for the entirety of the conversation, but again. He’s nervous. “I know you don’t want to involve yourself in it, in what we do, and that you’ve a love for your horses. But don’t you think it’s time to move on, yeah?”

Tommy arches an eyebrow. Ignoring the part about moving on, both things are true, but he doesn’t like the way it sounds coming from his brother’s mouth. Arthur’s never had a problem with him not being in the business, has never spoken of his work in a derogatory manner, as something childish, as him needing to grow up. It’s Arthur speaking, but it’s his father’s words. “Is it?” He just asks, not particularly willing to entertain this train of thought.

Arthur sighs, pushing around a small chunk of wood with his foot, a loose piece of crate that must have chipped off. “John wants to join up.” He nods, as if that’s all there was to it, as if there were some long-standing agreement that Tommy would be allowed a few years to tend to the horses, provided he joined up the moment John became old enough. 

Tommy sorts through a dozen arguments in his head, trying to find one that will be persuasive enough to at least put this off to another day. The problem is that he can’t really think of one. He wants to rail against John joining— he’s too young, too rash, but the words fall short in the back of his throat. Arthur’d been around John’s age when he’d been brought into the business. His brother isn’t looking at him, is looking at anything in Charlie’s yard _except_ him, but there’s something pained to his expression that makes Tommy deflate even further. It’s just. Inevitable. It was always inevitable. Arthur’s always known who they are, and Tommy had tried to ignore it, to an extent, but it was always there, in the back of his brain. He knew he was being selfish, in a way, that he wasn’t pulling his weight, that the family needed more money than they’d been earning. They weren’t meant for anything but this, not meant to do anything but the thieving and the cutting. It wasn’t like they could just march down to the BSA, or any other ugly brick factory, belching up smoke into the Birmingham air, and ask for a job and be done with it. Well, they could. But they wouldn’t. 

Tommy looked down at his hands, clenched tight into fists, mulls it over in his head a bit more. Once, when he was barely 11 or 12, he’d been cornered in an alley by a few other boys. His dad had owed their dads some money since before Tommy’d even been born, not that the reasoning really mattered to a handful of angry boys, they just knew that they were meant to hate each other. They’d cornered him in that alley, along with Arthur, vibrating with anger, and John, clutching at Tommy’s hand because he hadn’t understood. How could he? He was 7 years old, and Tommy barely understood himself. 

They’d barely fought them off, him and Arthur, all of them lucky that they were still young enough that they only used fists and not blades. He and Arthur had lost, obviously, had been left battered and bleeding, but it had been a close thing, had they'd been lucky that the group had at least let John alone. There were 4 of the other boys, and only 2 of them, but they were Peaky boys, right? Their grandad was a Blinder, their dad was a Blinder, and the violence that they inflicted and had inflicted back onto them, it was in their _blood_. His hands were stained red whether he liked it or not. A quirk of his birth.

There’s nothing else.

Arthur speaks again, interrupting him from his reverie. “It’s not just that.” Tommy looks up again, but doesn’t reply, just raises his eyebrow again, waiting for him to continue. Arthur looks pained. “It’s Kimber. Again. The Birmingham Boys, they’ve.” Arthur’s jaw squeezes tight, and Tommy can see the barely controlled anger there. “Well. They’re making trouble again.”

A laugh spits out of Tommy’s mouth before he can stop it. He manages to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Making trouble? Does he even know who we are?” 

Arthur finally turns his eyes on him, and Tommy knows that he hasn’t missed Tommy’s _we_. “Kimber knows who we fucking are,” he practically snarls, with a conviction that almost makes one forget that Kimber has no idea who they are. “And Enden,” Howard Enden, Kimber’s man who handles all the little gangs like theirs, “he keeps poking his head about, asking for more money.”

Ah. Tommy remembers the last time they’d dealt with Enden. Remembers Arthur and Arthur leaving for their meeting and remembers them coming back steaming mad. Polly had walloped the back of his older brother’s head during the family meeting where they’d discussed it, Tommy sitting bored in the back, but had listened, nonetheless. Their meeting with Enden had not gone well, had started badly when Enden had laughed at a tear their father had in his jacket, and had gotten worse from there. His brother had thrown a bit of a tantrum at the insult to their father, had ended up having a bit of a screaming match between the two of them, not helped by their dad nudging things along. It had (rather miraculously, if you asked Tommy) resulted in an uneasy alliance being forged, where Enden had told them that the Birmingham Boys would allow the continued existence of the Peaky Blinders, as long as they were quiet and gave them a rather large sum of money regularly. The Peaky Blinders had, of course, accepted these terms, or else be beaten and killed. 

“So, what about it, Arthur? How am I meant to help?” Tommy thinks he knows the answer, is quite certain about that fact. But he still asks anyways.

“You know what,” the spitting anger has drained out of Arthur. Tommy’s had a whirlwind few days, yes, but he can’t imagine what it’s like to live a life like that, living five seconds away from rage, ten away from being calm again. It gives him emotional whiplash just watching. “Dad, he’s. He refuses to see Enden anymore. Says it’s beneath him.” His voice is deeply defensive, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable thing for their dad to say, to refuse to go and talk to the man currently keeping them all from being beaten to death by Birmingham Boys. Tommy wants to strangle him.

“And?”

“Bloody hell, Tom, can’t make this easy for me.” Arthur smiles weakly. “We need someone to go to the meetings with bastards like Enden who won’t end up pulling a gun and fucking shooting him.”

“Leaving you out.”

Arthur snorts. “Yeah. Leaving me out.”

Tommy lets himself visibly relax a bit. It’s not an awful proposition, really. And he can’t think of anyone else who would actually do this sort of work. It’s too bad Polly weren’t a man, because she’d be perfect for it, an ideal mix of carefully constrained violence and intelligence. She’d talk circles around Enden. But they’d never take her seriously, their dad was a drunk, and Arthur was too hot tempered. He supposed they could bring in Uncle Charlie for that sort of thing, but at that point it was more of a hassle than if Tommy just gritted his teeth and fucking did his part. Tommy could talk to Enden. He might not have an awful lot of experience with negotiating with dangerous gangsters, but he knew people, and he knew how to talk without losing his temper. And it wasn’t as if they were expecting any miracles here, he just had to placate the man enough that he wouldn’t change his mind and decide the Peaky Blinders were better off dead. 

Briefly, he thinks of Alfie, thinks about what he’d say about it all. But they’ve never really discussed this sort of thing, never talked about what Alfie did when he was away with his father and brother, about the kind of work they did. Would Alfie be happy that Tommy was involving himself in the business? He remembered Alfie’s words to him when they’d first met, how he immediately spotted him to be not involved in the gang. But he can’t remember the man’s expression, can’t remember if he’d seemed pleased or disappointed by that fact. Alfie’s a blank space in his head, something just out of reach, like reaching down into a river to pick something up and finding your hand three inches to the left of what you’d been aiming for. All he knows is that Alfie wants him. How can that be all he knows? Is that enough?

Tommy sighs. Doesn’t really matter if Alfie likes it or not. He’s got to do it, doesn’t he? And it wasn’t as if they confided in each other, wasn’t as if they knew each other enough for Tommy to be basing decisions off of what he thinks. He rubs a tired hand over his forehead. “When’s the meeting?”

“Next week. Monday.”

“Yeah. Alright. I’ll do it. But just this once.”

Arthur grins at him, pulling him into a rough, brotherly hug. Tommy hugs him back, trying to ignore the niggling feeling in the back of his brain that tells him no, it won’t be just this once.

*

There’s a meeting that night, the entire family gathered around, as well as the usual assortment of their businessmen. Alfie, of course, but also Scudboat, other men from the betting shop. Tommy had been the last to arrive, had spent the afternoon trying to not think about things out with the horses, but Arthur had saved him a seat at the table, to Tommy’s surprise. During meetings, he usually just lurked around the edges of the room, hoping that he could overhear without being directly interacted with. But today, he has a seat. He couldn’t mistake the meaning behind that. 

It’s Alfie who is lurking in the background today, out of his element at the meeting. He likely hasn’t missed the fact that Tommy’s got a seat, but he’s never been witness to any other big family business meetings, so he might not be able to tell the significance. He just smiles at Tommy quietly, just barely a quirk of the lips, and Tommy nods back at him. Nothing’s wrong between them, per se, but Tommy can’t stop thinking about the simple fact that he doesn’t know him at all. He’s just a man who’d shown up on their doorstep, who Tommy had almost immediately allowed into his bed. It’s not the worst thing in the world, it’s not like they can’t rectify the situation, doesn’t think Alfie would object to slowing things down a bit so they can actually get to know each other. But the very fact of their lack of knowledge as to the other still doesn’t sit well with him, is sour in his veins.

Polly’s also lurking a bit. She’s got her eyes locked on Tommy the entire meeting, through the initial pleasantries, over the usual business they’ve got to talk about before getting to Tommy. Tommy tries to avoid her gaze, but he can feel it on him the entire time. He thinks about her warning. _Your father will cut you if he finds out_. 

Then the time comes for it, and Arthur Sr. stands up, a wide grin already on his face. He looks smug, almost victorious, as if he had anything to do with what was going on, beyond his simple negligence. John was there, and so was Tommy, both of them sat around the table in positions of vague importance, so anyone might have been able to guess what the man was about to say.

“Now. On to the most important news we’ve here tonight. The introduction of my sons,” Arthur gestures with his hand to Tommy and John, sat on his right, then places the hand over his heart, “into our ranks. Into the world at large, as men.”

Tommy clenches his jaw. It’d be a fitting comment for John, if John had been here, alone, but said about Tommy, it’s a thinly veiled insult. The implication that he’d been a cowering boy before, and only now did he deserve to be anything more. He bristles at it, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see a few of the other men in the room shuffling uncomfortably in their seats. Not even close to subtle. He doesn’t take his eyes off his father, who is still smiling beatifically down at the two of them. 

“John, my strong young lad. Brave, too! Always had a drive to him, couldn’t ever mistake it, not even when you were as young as the babe.” He’s talking about Finn, sleeping peacefully upstairs. Polly snorts from her spot on the edge of the room, and Tommy wants to as well. As if Arthur Sr. had spent enough time with John as a boy to know the intricacies of his personality— in fact, John had been a rather fearful child, because how could he not be? There’d been a period of time when he was 5 that John would wake up screaming every night from night terrors. Their mother would rock him to sleep in her arms, would sit at his side for hours, looking half dead from lack of sleep. Their father wouldn’t even be home from the pub.

Still, John glows from the attention. This is what he’d wanted for years. He sits up straighter in his seat, looks just as tall as Tommy.

“And Tommy, of course.” Their father’s eyes turn entirely to Tommy, fixed on him with the righteous intensity that only he could manage. Tommy braces himself for whatever vile thing he’s about to say. “We’ve never quite seen eye to eye, have we, son? But now that you’ve finally stepped up, I’ve no doubt in my mind that you’ll go on to do great things in the Shelby name.”

“Cheers to that!” Arthur Jr. stands up, on their father’s left side, raising a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looks genuinely delighted, has missed entirely the poisonous words. And it stings, but Tommy supposes it could have been worse, so he tears his eyes away, looks at his older brother, and raises his own glass with a tight smile.

The meeting dissolves after that, all the official business over. Tommy supposes he’ll have to speak with them the next day about the specifics of his meeting with Enden, but there’ll be no further business that night, if both the Arthur’s throwing back their drinks has got anything to say about that. Tommy talks and smiles with everyone, men clapping their hands on his shoulders to congratulate him, to welcome him into the business, but inside, it all feels rather hollow. He hasn’t dared tried to make eye contact with Alfie, nor Polly. He knows what Polly’s going to say, and he can’t risk appearing overly friendly with Alfie. But he knows, as he finishes off his glass of whiskey and quietly slinks out the front door, that Alfie’s going to follow after him.

He’s proven right, having barely reached the end of the street. “Oi! Tommy!” Alfie’s deep voice calls out after him. The sun has just finished setting, and the nearly full moon, low on the horizon, gives the whole evening a blue glow to it. Tommy stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn back, keeping his back towards the man as he listens to him hurry after him. When he reaches him, Tommy can hear the confusion in the man’s voice. “Sorry to say, but your father’s a right cunt, mate. What the fuck was all that about, eh?”

Tommy still doesn’t fully look at him, just inclines his head slightly in Alfie’s direction. “Not here, yeah? Follow me.” He waits, waits until Alfie’s nodding, brows furrowed, before he sets off, leading Alfie through the indigo streets. He doesn’t fully know where he’s going until he’s almost there, just wants to go somewhere they’re not likely to be overheard. 

He climbs down the steps near the canal, eyes darting around, checking for anyone lingering around. He hears Alfie follow him down, feet heavier on the steps than his. He’s brought Alfie to the place he used to meet Greta, back before when her parents still hated him and wouldn’t let him near the house. He supposes they probably do hate him again. He tries to push that into the back of his mind.

Regardless, there’s no one else here, and he knows from experience that there’s not likely to be anyone, either. He ducks into the small tunnel, casting a cursory glance around, to really ensure their privacy, before he comes back out, facing Alfie head on. 

“Well?” Alfie’s frowning at him, and he doesn’t exactly look confused anymore. Frustrated, maybe, at being led through dark streets, by lack of explanation, but not confused. 

“Well what.” Tommy asks, flat. He wants to rub his hand over his face, because honestly, this was really getting to be too much. He’d been flashing through so many different feelings, different emotions in just the past 24 hours, he felt read to explode into nothingness. He loved being with Alfie, but sometimes he really _hated_ being with Alfie. His life hadn’t been this complicated before he knew him.

Alfie’s frown deepens. “‘Well what’?” He sounds incredulous. “You’re a Peaky Blinder now, then?”

“I suppose.” Tommy looks away from Alfie, doesn’t like the man looking at him like that. That morning, there had been something exciting about it, something to Alfie’s irritation that had made his heart pound. Now, he was just tired. 

“You suppose.” The feeling drains out of Alfie’s words as he says them, until they’re just as flat and lifeless as Tommy’s. He can feel the man looking at him, studying him, but again. He’s just tired. “Still won't talk to me, then. Well, that’s that, right?”

Tommy peers back, hadn’t expected Alfie to back down so quickly. Alfie’s still staring at him, lips pursed in a straight line, but he definitely looks angry now. Tommy can feel annoyance starting to flare up inside of him, which he can’t even hope to contain, because it’s been a really shit night, and what right did Alfie have to look at him like that, to blame him for this? “Yeah, that’s that, Alfie. That’s fucking that. What business is it of yours if I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing?”

Alfie scoffs, and the sound of it is so condescending, that a flush of true anger works its way down Tommy’s spine. “You think that it’s what you’re meant to be doing? You serious?”

“Yes, Alfie. It’s what my family needs me to do, and so I’m going to fucking do it.”

“Oh,” Alfie makes a face, still infuriatingly smarmy. “See, that sounds different, right? It’s what your family’s asking of you, not what you’re bloody meant to be doing. As if your singular purpose in life is to be in a second-rate group of cutthroats.”

“Second-rate group of cutthroats?” Tommy can’t help smiling, but it’s not a nice one, not something kind and soft and lovely, not like how he usually smiles at Alfie. “I suppose you’re saying that you’re not one of those very cutthroats?” 

“Exactly, treacle. Nothing second-rate about me.”

“But you’re a cutthroat.”

“Yes,” Alfie’s eyes look sharp. He looks dangerous, standing there in the dark. The water in the canal gleams black behind him, reflecting the light from the moon back at them. “I suppose I am.”

Tommy sucks a breath in through his teeth. Why's Alfie acting like this? He’s not even quite sure what they’re arguing about here, if they’re even arguing at all. But there’s nothing playful about this, no underlying sense of safety in their words, as if they’re a second away from grinning or pulling the other into a kiss. “What do you want from me, Alfie?” He asks, because he wants to know, wants to understand why Alfie’s standing there across from him with anger seeping out of him, from his clenched fists to his wide eyes. “You want me to keep in the stables all day?” 

“If that’s what you want.” Alfie replies, quickly, not needing to think about his answer for even a second. And that makes it all the more frustrating, because what Alfie’s saying is objectively a nice thing, right? But the way that he’s saying it is decidedly _not_.

“And if it’s not what I want?”

Alfie’s expression shifts, slightly, to one of exasperation. “Then find what you do want. I just know it sure fucking isn’t working for Arthur fucking Shelby. Take your pick of which one.”

Tommy throws his hands up in frustration, smiling viciously again, and this is what the problem is, this is where his own anger lies, he can suddenly feel it in his _bones_. That disconnect between them, the chasm that seems to grow ever wider with every quick and bitter word exchanged between them, one that Alfie apparently doesn’t see. Alfie’s from London, Alfie works with his family, Alfie wants him. That’s all Tommy knows. How could that possibly be enough? “And how the fuck would you know that, eh?” A breath of laughter escapes him, and he doesn’t know why. “I don’t fucking know you; you don’t know me.”

Alfie suddenly takes a quick step forward, crowding into Tommy’s space. It’s still not nice, they’re still not going to kiss and move on. “Where's this come from? When I left you this morning, you weren't nearly this tetchy." The older man raises his hand into the air now, stopping just shy of actually touching Tommy's face. He eyes him like he's trying to see through him, as if he can see into Tommy's head if only he just looks hard enough. Tommy can't tell what the expression on his face means, deep and considering, yet still with that burn of a patronizing anger. "I know you, Tommy Shelby. We know each other. Doesn’t matter how fucking long I’ve been here, we know each other, and if you think otherwise, mate, you might just be the prettiest fucking idiot I’ve ever had.”

Tommy physically recoils, but doesn’t step back far, just retreats enough that he doesn’t have to feel the man’s breath on his face, doesn’t have to feel the heat from his anger radiating off of him in waves. The insult shoots through him, clangs around his ribcage, where it can do maximum hurt. The man is absolutely impossible. Because it’s a very romantic notion, insult notwithstanding, to declare that you know someone, because you looked into their eyes and _saw_ them, but Tommy’s not that kind of man. He doesn’t know him, in the way that Tommy _needs_ to know him, if they were ever going to have a chance at things. He can’t just close his eyes and let himself fall into it, and the fact that Alfie can, and can do so in such an infuriating manner, as if Tommy were the stupid one here for finding issue, sets something inside of Tommy aflame. If Alfie had said anything else, had been less presumptuous, less dismissive, Tommy might have felt differently. But in that moment, he fucking _loathes_ Alfie. “Oh, but you haven’t had me, have you?” His words come out low, quiet, barely above a whisper, and just like that morning, Tommy can see Alfie’s eyes being lured to his mouth. He tips his head back, slightly, neck stretching to meet the light of the moon. “Not really. And you know what? Not sure you ever will.”

Alfie blinks, eyes tracing the line of his neck, the set of his lips (slightly parted), then flicker up to Tommy proper, as if it’s taken him a moment to properly process those words. “Is that so?” He smiles then, as well, mocking and mean. “That’s what you think?”

Tommy nods, slow. “That’s what I think.”

Alfie steps forward again, chasing him back, against the brick. He doesn’t reach out a hand, doesn’t touch him. “I think,” he breathes, right against Tommy’s neck. “I think you’re lying, petal. I think we’re past the point of pretending, right? That you don’t want me, and I don’t want you.”

Tommy leans back, and his back hits the wall. “You know what I think, Alfie?”

“What do you think?”

“I think,” Tommy murmurs, “I think, Alfie, that no matter what you say, I don’t fucking know you. Maybe you know me, but I don’t know you. You’re a stranger to me, one who turned up at my door, but I’m tired of this.”

“You’re tired of this.” Alfie’s just repeating him at this point, still crowding him, and it only strengthens his resolve. 

“Of it all. I’m tired of you.”

“You’re not.”

Tommy laughs. “I am. I’m fucking exhausted. And for what? To be constantly afraid of someone finding out? Just so I can be _had_ by you?”

Alfie doesn’t say anything. He’s drawn back, slightly, and is staring at Tommy, considering.

“You know, I was thinking about what you’d say about it. Because your opinion matters to me. It does. But I couldn’t figure out what you’d think. Couldn’t even fathom.” He shakes his head, and pressed forward at Alfie’s retreat, keeping the close distance between their faces. “Because I don’t know you, Alfie. And I don’t think it’s fucking worth it.”

“And if I thought it was worth it?” Alfie finally asks, but his voice is quieter, still angry, but quiet. “If I wanted to keep you? Cutthroat that I am.”

Tommy smiles, a bit softer from his exhaustion, a bit wry, but it's still resentful. "Would you really want me that way?"

They’re both silent, like they’re both waiting to see what Alfie will say, even Alfie himself. Slowly, Alfie shakes his head. Words rumbling through his chest, "I wouldn't. I want you to-," he clears his throat, strong hands flexing at his side, a rare glimpse at nerves, uncertainty. "I want you to want me too. What can I do?"

"I think," Tommy says, just as carefully as Alfie's being now. "I think I just need a bit of time without you."

Alfie shifts, saying nothing. His fingers twitch, as if he's about to reach out, to grab, but then he stops himself. The moment stretches on, the only sound is their breathing and the water, lapping gently at the walls of the canal, voices from a nearby pub calling out over the night. The moment stretches, and then breaks, and so does Tommy. He releases a deep breath, and he just feels tired. “See you at home, eh?” Falteringly, he lifts a hand, presses it gently against Alfie’s face, pale and blue in the moonlight. Alfie closes his eyes, leans into it. 

Tommy leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes! i show up 2 months late with starbucks and two confused & uncertain boyz! will tommy ever get the reassurance he so clearly needs? will alfie ever get to grab tommy's chin again? how about that meeting w/ the birmingham boys? find out next time !!!!!
> 
> ty for reading!!!!!!!! and again, SORRY for the last update being in MID MAY. i'm [tsolomons](https://tsolomons.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you ever want to yell at me for taking forever to post, and i did write 2 short tommy/alfie fics in the meantime!!!! [here's](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24315517) a link to the better one ! (lmao...) ok self-promo done GOOD BYE


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